


Days Gone Bye

by MissScorp



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Batman (Comics), The Flash (TV 2014), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 127,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walkers are not the only things people will have to face in this post-apocalyptic world. Threats are coming at them from all sides. However, the largest danger facing Rick Grimes is the one with green eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello m'dears and welcome! Getting the legal outta the way, Raya, Christopher, and Rose are mine, Krypto and anything DC belongs to DC and everything Walking Dead to Robert Kirkman.
> 
> This story is under revision and will have new content added as I am editing the other stories
> 
> Timeline note: this story is operating somewhat from the timeline found at wiki/The_Walking_Dead_TV_Show_Timeline I have a TWD fact card that says the outbreak started in Los Angeles around August 7, 2010, so I am loosely timing things around this date. I am also playing with time a bit, trying to embellish things a bit because there were areas of season one that felt rushed. So, if the timeline isn't exact, just bear with me, please? :)
> 
> Please, if you like this story, bookmark/kudo it! Also, comments are more than welcomed! :)

'That I got the crossroad blues this mornin', Lord, babe, I'm sinkin' down...'

_Crossroad Blues_  by Robert Johnson

* * *

 

**Gas station north of Interstate 85**

_Day 60 of the outbreak (afternoon)_

"Little girl?" He called as the tiny figure of a child shuffled along in her dirty robe, carrying a torn and stained teddy bear in one grimy little hand while her grungy bunny slippers scraped across the asphalt. Every  _schit, schit_  shivered along nerves already fraying at the seams. His shuddering breath broke the unnatural silence. He froze, waiting for one of  _them_  to suddenly lurch out of nowhere. He didn't breathe as he waited. The little girl continued on, never stopping, never changing pace, never making a sound of acknowledgment.

"Little girl?"

He stood and circled around the car as quickly as he could, his heart pumping with dread and a worry that stemmed from paternal instincts that were set maximum. His chest throbbed with his every move, his still healing flesh screaming out in violent protest of his harried movements, but he ignored his own discomfort and pain in order to focus on the petite blonde girl who desperately needed his help.

A voice in the back of his head whispered to him about how something wasn't right about the situation, that she wasn't acting as a normally functioning child should be acting during a catastrophe of this magnitude and that he needed to tread carefully lest he found himself in a spot he couldn't readily get himself out of. That voice reminded him about how nothing in this world was as it seemed, that what appeared to be one thing on the outside could be an entirely different thing on the inside and that he needed to realize that danger lurked around every corner. He ignored that obnoxious voice as he called out again to the small girl who was slowly stumbling away from him towards some destination that she, alone, knew about.

"Little girl? I'm a policeman."

She didn't act as if she heard him. It was as if his words somehow didn't register with her. A frown puckered his brow, but he ignored the bubbles of warning in his gut and continued his pursuit.  _God_ , he thought as he gave chase,  _she can't be more than nine or ten by the looks of her_. Where her folks were, what might have happened to them, well, that was anybody's guess. That voice, though, returned to tell him that he knew what had happened to her family, he was just trying to ignore the truth by not acknowledging it. He had no clue about what horrors she might have seen, or how long it had been since the undead had torn through the small camp and left her on her own.

He shook off the feeling that he should back away, now, while he still had a chance. That was the act of a coward. And his wife might have accused him of being many things, but being a yellow-bellied dog wasn't one of 'em. No, he was a cop— _and a father_ , he added silently, and there was a child who was in need of his comfort and assistance. He held one hand out in supplication, ignoring the way it trembled and drew a breath before again calling to her. She kept moving away from him, her gait an unnaturally rolling one that had the hair on his arms and along the back of his neck shivering with rising alarm and dread.

"Little girl," he tried again. "Don't be afraid. Okay? Little girl."

There was nothing, not so much as a turn of her head or a shift of her body to indicate that she had even heard him. He found himself wondering if she was deaf. Her ignoring him would then make sense. He couldn't be sure, though, and he didn't want to add to her trauma by just reaching out and grabbing hold of her.

"Little girl?" Desperation echoed in every syllable. "I'm a policeman. Little girl?" He chanted the words over and over and over until he was almost hoarse. "Can you hear me? I'm a policeman. Little girl..."

Finally, after several agonizing minutes, the child came to a stop. He held his breath as she slowly turned to face him, praying with every fiber of his being that he'd just see a traumatized child. His breath came  _whooshing_  out a second later as the truth slammed into him.  _She's_... was the only thought that careened through his mind. A roaring filled his ears as he took in her crimson-stained pajamas, the blood, bits of bone and flesh and drool dripping from her drooping mouth and staining her braces. A primal hunger—much like that of a half-starved animal, burst to life in her jaundiced eyes as soon as she became aware of him. A shuddering breath burst from him as he backed up a few steps, his hand already going to the gun in his holster.

She started to growl, a low, almost animalistic sound that rippled with only one intention: to feast. She started to move towards him in a jerky, swaying sort of motion, her small fingers curved into gore encrusted talons he knew she'd use to rip his flesh apart the second she got hold of him. Even now, her slack mouth was making chewing motions. It was as if she already could taste his flesh in her mouth, in her throat. Disgust ripped through him and for a moment he thought he was going to be violently ill. He bore down, shoved the greasy swirl of nausea back and rapidly searched for a way to get away.

_I am going to have to kill her_.

The thought horrified him as much as it sickened him. The truth of it, though, was hard to deny. Not when the evidence was lumbering right towards him with murder stamped upon a sweetly angelic face. Operating solely on his cop instincts now, he fumbled for the Colt revolver strapped to his hip, wrestling it free of the holster even as he swallowed back the bile that surged, hot and foamy, into his mouth. He understood what he had to do and hated himself for it. His eyes watered and he had to blink them twice before he could focus upon that thin figure lurching after him. His hand shook, once, as he lifted the gun. His only thought was about how she could be one of his boy's friends, she could be one of their siblings, she could even be a classmate of his.

And now he was going to have to put her down.

What choice did he have, though? She was no longer a human child. She was a killing machine that could not be reasoned with, a killer who needed to be stopped before she could hurt anybody else with her madness, an animal he needed to put down so that she could not harm anyone ever again. It was for that reason, and that one reason alone that he would do the unthinkable, the unconscionable, the unforgivable. He'd do it because it was the kindest thing for him to do. He'd do it because it was all he could do. It was the only goddamn thing this world had left him able to do. He raised the revolver as she lunged at him, his vision shattering and his heart becoming nothing more than a small black stone sitting inside his chest cavity.

"I'm sorry," he murmured as he cocked the hammer. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you."

And he squeezed the trigger...

...

Rick Grimes awoke to the cannon-blast of thunder and the jagged rip of lightning. Awoke to terror and the lingering grief over what he'd been forced to do less than a day ago. He sat up with a gasp that quickly turned into a groan as his still-healing chest wound cried out at his abrupt movement. His blood pumped; pulsed. His breath tore out of his throat and ended in soft, ragged gasps that seemed three times louder. Fear ruled until there was nothing else inside him, no reason, no logic, and no truth.

Rain beat a hard tattoo on the roof of the abandoned passenger vehicle he'd taken refuge in for the night, washed down the back glass and made visibility through the mud-splattered windows absolutely impossible. Sweat dotted his upper lip and brow, dampened his palms and glued his shirt to his chest and back. Finally, when he was certain that nothing was going to come out of the dark and attack him, he lay back down on the seat and tried to gather his scattered wits.

Sleep, though, was a long time in returning. As he lay there, he found himself wondering about where his wife, Lori, and their son, Carl were at that moment. Were they thinking about him, did they believe him to be dead, were they out there and waiting for him to come and find them? He had told Morgan that he was sure that his family was out there, that they were alive, and that he was gonna find them come, "hell or high water." And when he did find them, he was gonna make damn sure that he never let 'em go again.  _I'm gonna make it up to them_ , he thought as he stared through the sunroof.  _We'll find somewhere safe and start again_.

The storm passed a little while later and Rick found himself able to again drift into a light, but troubled slumber. He was asleep for what seemed to be a matter of minutes when he swore that he heard the soft _chuffing_  of an animal as it prowled outside the car. His gut twisted with a moment's fear, his pulse kicked and his breath came out as tattered rasps as he waited for whatever was outside to make an attack. He reached for his revolver even as he heard the soft and plaintive whine of what he hoped was an  _ordinary_  dog. Even then, Rick knew that a regular, everyday ole Fido was still more than capable of ripping a man like him to pieces with its bare teeth.

Nails clawed at the car door, unnerving him even more than he already was. He imagined seeing a mangled face appear in the window a second before a snow-white dog that looked more like some type of a hybrid version of a wolfhound than it did an average mutt outta the pound, jumped up to look at him through the rear passenger window. The dog let out one loud yip and slapped at the door with paws that Rick swore could have doubled as baseball mitts.

"Sh!" he tried, but the dog just continued his whimpering and whining. "Hey, quit it!"

The dog ignored him and persisted with making his fuss. That dozens of walkers didn't swarm out of the darkness because of the noise amazed Rick. He didn't count his blessings, though. He still had a huge dog to deal with. One who could be seeing him as a tasty midnight snack. He studied the noisy mutt, figured he looked harmless enough, considering his immense size, but Rick knew full well how looks could be deceiving.

Hadn't he learned that when he'd been forced to do the unthinkable to a ten or eleven-year-old girl just a little over twenty-four hours ago? Unbidden, the image of that little blonde-haired girl, her mouth stained by whatever it was that she'd found to tear into with her baby teeth, and her eyes, those great big, empty orbs inside her pale face swam across his visual field. Guilt and disgust clawed at him anew for what he'd been forced to do in order to survive. It was a cold reminder about how his eyes could have led him into making a costly mistake had his training and instincts not kicked in.

He smacked the image away with a curse, focusing again on the dog that had managed to leap up onto the trunk of the car in order to tap at the glass with one of its mammoth paws. Rick's mouth went dry as he watched every one of the dog's muscles ripple with a lethal grace. Every tap at the glass caused his belly to quiver with dread. The mutt stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and something that Rick didn't quite think of as  _doggie_  intelligence shining in the depths of his chocolate-colored eyes. He let out another yip before he laid down, heaving a long, drawn out sigh. He stared at Rick as he rested his great big head on his equally as big paws. The trunk let out a plaintive whine at being forced to absorb the dogs immense size. Rick cringed as he waited for some of the infected to come investigate the sound.

If not for the precariousness of the situation, he might have found it, and the dog, amusing. As it was, every part of him was on edge, his body primed and just waiting for when the other shoe was gonna drop. He had been lucky until now but knew that his luck could run out. And as affable as his annoying guest appeared to be, his pack mates could be anything but friendly.  _Or his owner could be one of those cop-hating folks_ , Rick thought as he kept his eyes fixed upon the dog who was keeping his eyes trained on him. Footsteps coming around the driver's side of the car alerted him to there being someone else outside. He went as still as a statue, his breath lodging in his throat as his every sense attenuated to the sound of their walk. His finger curled around the trigger of his revolver as he waited. He wanted to be prepared should he hear that all too familiar shuffling gate or that inarticulate moaning.

He half-expected  _Snow,_ as he decided to call the dumb mutt, to take off running as soon as whatever was walking around the front of the car got close enough, but the  _thump-thump-thump_  of his tail upon the trunk lid told him the stupid dog was gonna stay right where he was. There was a soft sigh followed by someone saying something he couldn't quite make out over the loud thumping, but which sounded like a request for silence. Snow let out a high-pitched bark and smacked his tail even harder on the deck lid. The sound echoed like machine gunfire, shattering the relative silence and skimming along Rick's already frayed nerves, unraveling them further.

"Stop that!" he ordered at the same time that he heard a soft, feminine voice hiss, "Krypto!"

The dog,  _Krypto_ , he now presumed its name to be, merely sat up at the sound of that satin-smooth voice and let out a bark that earned him a, "Hush!" from his female companion. The dog, however, refused to heed to her command and set about whining and yipping and pawing at the glass in a more insistent manner. He thought he heard the woman mutter something about, "super mutts," followed by something about them not, "comprehending the need to be quiet in an apocalypse," before he heard something heavy getting dropped on the hood of the car.

He peeked over the top of the driver's seat, gun at the ready, but couldn't make out any discernible features through the gore-and-mud splattered glass. All he could make out was a small, dark silhouette, nothing else.  _It could be a woman, a pre-adolescent youth, or even a feminine-sounding man_ , he reasoned with a sigh. Krypto— _and wasn't that the name of the dog in the Superman comics_? he found himself wondering as the dog let out a loud woof and stomped one mammoth foot that shook the vehicle.

"Krypto," he heard the woman huff in that way of all women who'd officially reached the end of their tether and were about to blister the hide of whoever was in their path. "I swear I am gonna shoot you in the ass one of these days."

The dog replied with a roll of his eyes and a pointed  _woof_  that Rick interpreted as his way of saying, "Right."

He felt a grin tug at his lips despite the precariousness of his situation. Krypto let out another long series of varying sounds: yips, woofs, rolling growls. All of them clearly sought to get his owner to come and see what it was that he'd found.

Rick considered shooting the Wolfhound from Hell himself at that point.

A second shadow darkened the back glass for a moment, alerting him to how yet another person, or persons, was out there. He angled his body so that he could keep a watch on the front and back of the car, his revolver at the ready for whenever someone would either test the doors or bust the glass in order to gain admittance to the car. It was a tight squeeze, considering the rather limited amount of space he had to work with, and he paid for it when he felt his still-healing skin split and start to throb like a bad tooth. He stifled a curse as he clapped a hand to the wound, but he could already feel the warm stickiness that was already soaking through his shirt. Krypto must have caught the scent of fresh blood because he renewed his yipping and howling with renewed vigor.

"Quiet!" he growled at him to no avail. "Damn dog…"

"What is it, boy?" he heard another voice, this one of a teenage boy, ask. The huge dog continued his whining and stomping on the glass with his front feet. "You find something?" A hand, tanned golden brown from long hours spent out in the sun, reached up to rub over the dogs quivering hindquarters. "Is that it?"

More whining greeted his questions. Rick, again, considered shooting the dopey mutt but figured doing so would only make what was already a bad situation much worse than it already was. The hand that had been stroking Krypto's flesh wiped at the glass before a boy, all of maybe eleven or twelve, peeked in.  _He's the same age as Carl_ , was the only thought that ripped through Rick's head. For a second, he imagined that it was his son looking in at him. He shook that image away as a new and even more terrifying thought flashed through his mind:  _this could be what Carl is doing at this very moment_.

A newfound horror engulfed him as he thought about his son being out on some dark and deserted road, scavenging for food and water instead of being either safe at Lori's parents' house or the Refugee Center that had been set-up when the crisis began. His son could even now be running from one of those infected  _things_ , at the mercy of whatever Good Samaritan might happen along to save him since his own father wasn't there to keep either him or his mother from harm.  _Where is your father, kid_? he asked as he stared into eyes that were as green as Carl's.  _Who is protecting you? Who is keeping you safe_?

Who was telling him that it was all gonna be okay?

He went to sit up, but a white-hot pain streaking across his chest caused him to fall back upon the seat with a curse. The boy's eyes popped wide when he finally realized how he was  _alive_  and not some near dead or fully dead person.

"Mom!" The boy shouted, rather needlessly in Rick's opinion. A loud whisper could be heard for miles. "Mom! There's an injured man over here!" He clambered up onto the trunk, which groaned even louder this time with the abuse it was being given, and waved his arms in a frantic attempt to get his mother's attention. "Mom! Come quick! There's an injured man in this car here!"

Krypto added to the ruckus by barking.

Rick started to see his life, again, flash before his eyes.  _I manage to survive getting shot and being in a coma only to get myself killed out on some deserted highway because some kid and his idiotic dog can't grasp the importance of doing everything as silently as possible given the very real threat lurking in the damned dark_ …


	2. Chapter 2

There was a sigh and the sound of a car door being closed before Rick heard the woman from earlier say, "I heard you the first time that you shouted for me, Christopher."

"I did _not_ shout," the boy huffed good-naturedly. "I merely called out to you. As," he said over an indelicate snort, "you told me to do should I find anything of interest."

Another figure joined the boy- _Christopher_ , the boy's name was, at the back of the car. Rick could barely make out the woman's features from his prone position, but what he could see was a riot of dark curls piled up into a messy bun and a peek of skin that reminded him of fresh cream.

"You hollered about there being an injured man in the car?" she drawled in a way that had a laugh bubbling into his throat.

"I was so _not_ hollering."

"I could hear you from all the way down at the other end of the road, Meathead," a third voice, that belonging to a much younger sounding girl, called from somewhere near the front of the car. "So there."

"Shut up, Rose."

"Christopher…" his mother warned. "Don't tell your sister to shut up."

"And why can't I?"

It was spoken in that way of all brothers who were beleaguered by obnoxious siblings. Rick could well empathize with him, having a brother himself and knowing full well just how annoying they could be. _Especially at this age_ , he mused.

"It is not polite to tell someone to shut up," came his mother's gentle rebuking. "That's why."

"Rose stuck her tongue out at me, though," Christopher protested. "Where was that polite?"

There was a sigh and then, "You're right. Rose? Don't stick your tongue out at your brother."

"But you stick your tongue out at Uncle Dick all the time," the girl, Rose, fussed. "And at Uncle Jason."

"And Uncle Tim," Christopher added with a grin that Rick saw stretched from ear to ear. "So, you aren't being very polite to them when you do it and should apologize to them for it."

"Yes, I should," there was just a speckle of humor in that satiny tone now, "but I won't since they deserve when I stick my tongue out at them." Then he heard her mutter something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Lot less painful of me than smacking them winged idiots upside their hard heads is."

"Why is it okay that you stick your tongue out at them," Rose complained, "but I can't stick mine out at Christopher?"

"Because I'm your mother and say you may not stick your tongue out at him is why."

"That's totally not fair," both kids cried in unison. "Mom!"

"Tough."

Rick listened to the exchange, amused despite the precariousness of his situation. The resigned look on Christopher's face told him this was an argument that had been had many times before and all with the same parental outcome. As a parent, he understood her reasons for correcting them. Telling someone to shut up and sticking your tongue out at them was not exactly the most appropriate social behavior. As a man who possessed— _or had possessed_ , he amended with a grimace- a sibling, however, he sympathized with the pair. _There are just some days where you don't feel like being nice or polite to your brother or sister_. There were days, in fact, where he recalled wanting to do nothing more than beat the shit outta his brother just because Jeff had annoyed the hell out of him. He must have made some sound because those green eyes, bright and full of life, flickered back to him. Rick found himself thinking again about Carl, and about how his eyes would twinkle with a slight hint of youthful mischief or awe.

Christopher's brow puckered as he stared at him, openly assessing, before he turned away to say to his mother, "There's a man lying in the backseat of the car. He's got a hand clamped to his chest. I think he's injured." He glanced back at Rick from over his shoulder. "Looks like he could be bleeding pretty bad."

Rick bit out a vehement curse and switched his gun to his other hand just in case the boy's mother proved to be a whole lot more dangerous than either her two kids or hellhound from hell were.

"In the car…?" he heard the woman murmur in a low, husky tone that caused his belly to curl unexpectedly with an all too familiar heat. "Christopher, are you even sure that the man is…" There was a thirty-second pause. "Alive?"

"Uh, he looked at me so, yeah?"

His cheeky response almost made him laugh. The kid had balls that much was for sure. Carl would never have sassed him as this boy just had his mother.

"Mind your tongue, Christopher." His snort was punctuated by a deep sigh from his mother. Rick almost felt sorry for her. The teenage years were going to be an exercise in patience from the looks of it. "How can you even be sure that he's not another of the infected that we've been encountering? There have been many of those. And they," she said in a tone that had Rick imagining honey dripping off a comb, "all looked at you when you tried to get their attention."

"I'm positive he is not one of the infected, Mom." Christopher rolled his eyes. "Geez, I am your son, remember? I mean..." A grin flashed across his face. "I did inherit more than just your temper and stubbornness."

"You need to stop listening to your uncles," his mother harrumphed. "Especially your uncle Tim."

"Why?"

"Because your uncle Tim is the one who took brooding and made it an entirely new form of private warfare."

"I thought that was uncle Jason?"

There was a tiny scoff. Then the little girl, Rose, said, "Uncle Jason's version of brooding is getting into physical fights with Uncle Dick and Grandpa that result in mom not speaking to any of them for days upon days."

"Where did you hear that from, Rose?"

"Uncle Dick."

The woman sighed before saying, "Yeah, well," in a way that promised hell for the man in question. "You need to ignore anything that your Uncle Richard says."

Rick swallowed back another laugh. Their family dynamics were… _interesting_ to say the least. _People like them can't be bad_ , he thought as he shifted into a semi-sitting position. _People who clearly love and care about each other and about their absent family members can't be a threat_. He hissed as a bolt of pain streaked across his chest. Krypto, or as Rick dubbed him: _The-Hellhound-Who-Wouldn't-Shut-Up_ , let out a bark that drew Christopher's attention back to him. The boys dark brows lowered over the bridge of his nose and his mouth thinned into a line that told Rick he was worse off than he had thought he was.

"Mom?" The boy nodded his head towards him. "The man in the car…?"

"Christopher…" his mother let out a soft sigh. "I know you want to help everyone, and believe me, baby, I am incredibly awed and amazed by your kind and generous heart. However, we can't help everybody we come across. We just don't have enough resources available to help all the people who need it."

"Not yet we don't," Rose chimed in. "But we will once we get to Grandpa Bruce's, right, Mom? He will have enough supplies and things to help those who need it. Won't he?"

"Sweetie, if there's anybody in this world who is prepared for an apocalypse, it is your Grandpa Bruce."

"We have to help this man, though," Christopher insisted in an emotionally charged voice. "Mom, we have to help him."

"Christopher," his mother said slowly; patiently, "why is it so important that we hel-"

"'Cause he's a cop, Mom."

…

Her son's announcement had the same effect as a bucket of ice water being dumped over her head. Raya Kean rocked back on the balls of her feet as the icy deluge poured over her, into her. There had been many local law enforcement agencies that had acted as the first responders when things initially started to go to hell. Many officers had done everything they could in order to help people with family members who were stricken by the fever that predated the rise of the dead. Many had been out there on the front lines, helping people to evacuate to the CDC or make preparations for the incoming siege. Many cops went above and beyond their stations in order to make sure that people got away from the sheer overwhelming number of infected that were walking the streets. And it was the cops, at the expense of their own lives, who got as many civilians as they could to safety before the law, as well as the world went all to hell. _Cops_ , she realized as she stared into her son's pleading eyes, like her uncle Jim, Harvey Bullock and her own best friend and onetime Blüdhaven City Police Officer, Dick Grayson.

_Christopher is right_ , she thought. _We have to help this man_. _No matter who he is, he was once a police officer. We owe him for his dedication and time of service_.

She would help the man, whether he was a badge-carrying officer of the law or not, simply because her son had asked her to. _And I won't deny you this_ , she told him as she stared into his face. _Conner's face_ , she thought as she cupped his cheek in her hand. _You are beginning to look and act more like your father every day_.

"Mom?" There was a thick cord of concern in Christopher's voice, upon his face. "You okay?"

_No, baby_ , she silently told him as she stroked his cheek with her thumb. _I'm not okay. And I won't be okay until I get you and your sister somewhere safe_.

"Mom?" Rose joined her brother. "Mom?"

Raya gave them both a reassuring smile as she stepped back. "I'm okay," she lied. "Just tired is all."

Neither of her children looked like they believed her.

"You said the man is a cop?" She approached the grime-and-gore-coated sedan and started to glance into the backseat but hesitated. She glanced again at Christopher, one eyebrow lifted. "You're _sure_ he is a cop?"

"Uh, yuh," her son said in a near-perfect imitation of her own dry tone. "I wouldn't tell you he's a cop if I couldn't tell that he, yanno, actually _is_ one."

Of all the things that her son had to inherit from her, her smart mouth didn't have to be one of them. _Now I know how everyone I have ever sassed has felt_ …

"And you can tell he is a cop, how, exactly?"

"His badge kinda gives it away."

Raya flicked a look at her son that warned him about what the consequences would be if he continued with his cheekiness. A responding smirk, one that so thoroughly reminded her of his father, tilted one corner of his mouth. It was a vivid reminder of the man who had sired this boy. _He's getting to be more and more like you every day, Conner_. She felt a twinge of that never-quite-gone grief but set it aside to handle the most pressing issue at hand.

"How do you know for sure that the man is a cop?" She folded her arms across her chest. "What makes you believe he's actually an officer of the law?"

"Uh, 'cause he's also wearing a King County Sheriff's uniform to go with that badge pinned to his chest?"

Raya harrumphed at that. "He could have stolen the uniform from a supply store or police station," she pointed out in a cool, crisp tone. "Or taken the clothing and the badge from a police officer that he killed."

"He looks like a cop, Mom," Christopher replied in a voice that clearly said he thought she was being dense. "I mean, it's pretty hard to fake looking like a cop."

Krypto heaved a sigh that echoed Raya's thoughts perfectly about that statement. "Christopher…" she said slowly. "Criminals pretend to be cops all the time."

Christopher's jaw set in that same way that Conner's did whenever he was about to dig his heels in about something. "He's a cop, Mom," he gritted. "I'm sure of it."

"Looking like a cop is just not a good enough reason to explain why you think he is one, honey," she sighed. "I'm sorry."

"What more do you want?" he huffed now. "I mean, he looks like a cop to me. What other reason do you want me to give you?"

"Christopher," Raya stated now with as much patience as she could muster. "There is absolutely no way to identify a person as a-"

"…cop?" Her smarmy-mouthed son snorted at that. "Grandpa Jim looks like a cop even when he's in his pajamas."

She had to concede that he had a point there. James Gordon could be wearing swim trunks and a straw hat and manage to look like a cop. Still, just because the man could be a cop didn't make him someone that they could automatically trust. _I learned all about how the cops can be the bad guys when I was eight and hunted by men from Uncle Jim's unit_. The memories of that long ago Christmas Eve still caused her to have nightmares all these years later. She didn't have to try and recall the hot, hungry eyes of Detective Branson as they followed her all around the squad room. She only needed to close her eyes in order to see them. Same as she didn't need to think hard in order to remember the night her father murdered her mother. It was a memory that frequently superseded itself over everything else on her mind.

A tumbling vase spilled, unbidden, across her visual field. The world faded away as she heard the crack of gunfire above the glass shattering upon the asphalt that turned into sparkling marble. A trickle of blood slowly surrounded one fragile bloom as the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder mixed with scorched flesh and fresh blood. She heard a scream she did not recognize as her own, then there was another shot and her mother was falling, collapsing upon the small table in the middle of the entryway, upsetting the vase of roses - always red roses - so that they rained down upon her as she fell. With everything she had left, her mother crawled towards the stairs, towards her inner sanctuary, a bloody trail in her wake the only evidence of the violence that had been perpetrated on that night.

_Eight-year-old Raya had flown down the winding staircase and fallen to her knees beside the broken, battered figure of her mother with a tiny whimper. Her child-sized hands had slid over her mother's abraded flesh, treating it as the most fragile of porcelain. It had been just a flutter of gently probing fingers gliding over the fractured skin, but they had searched out and tried to stem the worst of the blood-flow. Her mother had again tried to move, to push and pull her ravaged body towards the stairs and the sanctity of her personal rooms in the mansions East Wing. Raya had pushed her back down, murmured soothing, nonsensical words to her as she had tried to figure out what she was supposed to do._ _Hands had fisted, much like the talons of a hawk, in the soft material of her thin cotton t-shirt, and had tugged with what little strength remained inside her mother's frail body. Raya had leaned down in time to hear her mother breathe out one word:_ _"Run..."_

_Then her mother had slid beneath the comforting, dark blanket of unconsciousness. Raya had gently cradled her head in her lap, in hopes, it would reassure her mother, bring her some small amount of comfort and solace. She had angled her head to look at the holes in her chest, blackened around the edges, still seeping blood. Her mother's eyes were closed, her face drained of all color except for the thin line of blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth..._

Raya would live; all the rest of her life she would live with that image of her mother—bleeding and broken at the bottom of that grand staircase as the man who hurt her circled them like a vulture just waiting to peck at their carcasses. It was a memory she believed would hound her into the afterlife. _And likely beyond that_.

"Mom? Mom, are you okay?"

_No, baby_ , she told Christopher silently. _No, I'm not okay. I have never_ been _okay. I just have done a really good job at keeping all of my fears and pain and grief where you and your sister could never see them_.

She didn't say any of that to her son, though. No, she just re-buried all of the dark things screaming obscenities inside her head and lifted eyes just a bit blurry to his worried ones.

"You don't know who you can trust in this world, Christopher," she told him in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. "You don't know who is a good person or a bad person or someone masquerading as one or the other. Remember, this isn't a good world, a nice world, a safe world. Not anymore. It's-"

"I know, Mom," Christopher interjected with a sigh. "This world is a cruel, cold, and dangerous place. You've told me this like gazillions of time already."

"Well," she said lightly, "consider this a gazillion and one time that I have told you this."

"Whatever," Christopher replied with a roll of his eyes. "God," he muttered as he sent a pained look at the man who was watching from inside the car. "You are such a mom at times, I swear."

"Only mom ya got, kiddo." Raya indicated for him to get down off the car. "Now, go and help your sister with loading the things we found into the Bronco, okay?"

"Fine," he huffed.

"Thank you," she said, her lips twitching at his aggravated tone. "I do so appreciate your cooperation in the matter."

"What would you do without me?" he joked.

She sent him an amused look. "Go away so I can find out."

"You wouldn't let me get more than five steps."

She reached out to stroke her fingers over his cheek. "Wouldn't even let you get that far, kiddo."

"See?" he teased. "You're such a mom."

"Get going," she ordered. "We still have a lot of road to cover tonight."

He flashed a grin at her that again reminded Raya of Conner. Seeing it caused her heart to turn over as a smidgen of that decade old pain and grief surfaced. _Has it really been that long since he died_? she mused as she watched him jump down from the car and jog over to where his ten-year-old sister, Rose, was loading bags into the back of the Bronco she'd hot-wired when they'd been two counties over. Krypto let out a yip, drawing her attention back to the problem currently facing her. With a sigh, she walked over to the back passenger side door and reached out to wipe at the dirty glass with her hand, not knowing what she'd find, but preparing herself for the absolute worst...


	3. Chapter 3

Rick watched Christopher flash a cheeky grin at his mother before hopping down from the back of the car and scampering off to help his sister —  _Rose_ , with loading whatever vehicle they were using.  _Who are these people_? he found himself wondering as he listened to a muffled exchange between the siblings.  _And why are they traveling this highway at night_? Of the two, finding out the answer to the latter was the one most important to him. Rick shifted into an upright position and swallowed back a litany of inventively inappropriate words as white-hot pain exploded across his chest. Blood oozed, gooey and sticky as warm caramel, from the wound. It's coppery scent alerted the white hellhound, who released a high-pitched woof before leaping, nimble as a jackrabbit up onto the roof of the car.

Krypto whined as he stared at Rick through the dirty sunroof, agitated by the smell of fresh blood and the sight of the pain upon his face. He stomped his paws against the glass, clearly trying to break it, and barked once to indicate what he wanted Rick to do: step out of the vehicle. Not that Rick was of any mind to obey that particular command.  _No-Sir-Ree-Bob_. Dog wanted him to get out of this vehicle? Well, he would just have to crawl in here and drag his ass out.

"Would you cut it out?" Rick hissed at him finally, but the mutt merely started whining and pawing at the glass more insistently. "Goddamn it," he barked, "I said quit it!"

"You've made your point, Krypto," came from the woman on the outside of the vehicle. "Now would you knock it off before you either give the poor man a heart attack or attract some unwanted company?"

Rick was about to tell her he would shoot the damned dog if he didn't knock it off, but both his annoyance and his intended threat melted into absolute and total stupefaction the second her face came into view. Rick wasn't rightly sure about what he expected, but  _she_ certainly wasn't it. This woman was like that one lone flower blooming in the midst of a growing cesspool. There was an elusive, exotic air about her, an aura of mystery and intrigue, a hint of danger and vulnerability. He told himself his reaction wasn't because he found her beautiful.  _Well_ , he thought with a slight grimace,  _not beautiful in the same way women like Faith Hill and Shania Twain used to be considered beautiful_.

Her face reminded him of a fox—a narrow, somewhat aristocratic nose, high, sculpted cheekbones, a tapered chin. Her eyes were long and heavy-lidded, and a darker, richer shade of green than her son's. Her unpainted mouth was wide and full and trembled with the tidal wave of thoughts and emotions that burned in those expressive eyes. From what he could see of the rest of her, she was small, almost delicately built, but with a ripple of lean muscle in her arms that told him she didn't live a sedentary lifestyle.  _It shouldn't all go together_ , he thought as his brain jumbled. The elements of her face, that body shouldn't work together as a whole. Yet, he found they were perfect. He thought  _she_  was perfect.

"You need some help, Sheriff?" she asked in a smoky tone that seemed to slide beneath the edge of tension coiling his belly into knots and slowly unraveling them. "You hurt?" She paused for half a second, made a face that was a combination of disgust and weariness, and then added in one long exhalation of air, "You been bitten by one of the infected?"

Rick could tell the last was one she asked all too often. It was one more reminder of how much this world had changed while he had been off playing in coma-land.

"I'm fine, ma'am," he lied. "Just stopped to rest here for the night is all."

Krypto heaved one, long, drawn-out doggy breath before muttering some decidedly  _un-doglike_  things beneath his breath. Rick assumed it was the dog calling him out on his bullshit. The woman must have understood what the damned mutt said because she, too, heaved a sigh as she tucked a wildly curling lock of hair behind one ear before meeting his gaze.

"Look, Sheriff," she said in that low, sultry voice. "I get why you're reluctant about accepting any help from me and my family. You don't know me or my son and daughter," a bark interrupted her and she gave a look at the offender before adding, her tone as dry as sand, "or this dopey mutt from Adam."

Well, he had to give it to the woman. She certainly didn't mince words.

"No, I don't know you," he agreed with a faint nod. "However, I am-"

"...hurt." She smiled to soften her brusque tone. "Krypto wouldn't be putting up the ruckus he is if you weren't."

A yip greeted that statement and was punctuated by a pointed doggy look.

"Look, if it will put you a bit more at ease, my Uncle Jim is—or was," she corrected in a voice that wavered for a split second with an all too familiar fear, "the police commissioner in the city where I grew up."

_Well, that explains her son's reaction to me being a police officer_ , Rick thought as he studied that staggering face.  _Her uncle is a fellow officer of the law. Well, he was a fellow officer of the law_ , he amended with a faint grimace. Clearly, she didn't know if her uncle was alive. All she could do was hope that he was.  _Same as I can only hope that Lori and Carl are alive_. Morgan told him that the lines of communication had gone out when things finally came to a head. Families had been forced to scatter in all directions in order to avoid being swept up in the deluge. Many had been left with no way to make contact with their families and set up a place for them to reunite. The only option most had was to do exactly as he was: scour the planet and pray you would get lucky and find your lost family members hiding some place safe.  _That's what they're doing_ , he realized with a start.  _They're trying to find their family the same as I am trying to find Lori and Carl_.

It explained why the three of them were traveling at this time of night. The temperatures tended to be cooler, the shadows longer, and the possibility of being discovered by any of the bands of survivors just a little bit less. Still, it was an incredibly dangerous move, given how this small slip of a woman was the only protection her children had from the monsters slowly taking over the world. Before he could question her about if she had anything, save for a noisy hellhound for protection, Christopher returned.

"You were also a cop, Mom." Rick saw that twelve-year-old smug-as-hell expression upon his face and hid a grin. "You were a special agent in Grandpa's precinct for a couple of years."

"That I was." A faint smile tugged at her lips as she flicked her eyes to her son. "That was before I moved down here to raise you and your sister."

"You were a special agent?" Rick's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. "Did you work for the Bureau?"

"No, I didn't work for the Bureau." That they were essentially communicating through a flimsily locked door and an extremely fragile pane of glass didn't seem to faze the woman one bit. She just took it all in stride and answered him as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "I was part of a new team of specially trained agents that the Gotham City Police Department hired in order to help the police with solving the most difficult cases that tended to come along. My job," she explained when she saw his questioning look, "was to essentially study the unsub and not the crime itself."

"You were a criminal profiler."

"As well as the department's in-house Psychologist," she affirmed with a nod. "Yes."

_She is not bragging_ , he thought.  _She is simply stating facts that she figures will put me at ease_. And it did work, he realized. She also wasn't treating him as anything other than what he was: an injured man caught up in the same nightmare she was.  _And she has been polite enough to not point out about how I am being a stupid son of a bitch for not admitting that I need medical attention_.

"All right," he finally said in one long breath. "I give up. I'm coming out."

There was a soft chuff followed by a yip. The woman just looked at the dog.

"Well, now, I don't think that  _that_  was necessary."

He glanced at her, one brow arched.

"You speak dog?"

"I know what that dopey mutt is saying," she replied. "Yes."

His lips curled at the corners.

"Calling me a stubborn asshole for not admitting I needed help sooner?"

Her eyes glinted with an impish light he found charming.

"Might have been something to that extinct," she admitted with a smile.

"I deserve it," he admitted as he made to exit the vehicle. Krypto chose that moment to yawn. Rick's mouth went dry at the sight of those razor sharp teeth in that massive mouth. "Uh, he is friendly, right?" he asked weakly. "He won't jump me and tear me apart soon as I exit the car?"

"That moronic hound?" She snorted a laugh. "He rarely meets a stranger that he doesn't want to bring home with him as a pet." An answering  _woof_  came from Krypto, who flopped onto his side and gave Rick what he figured was the hound's most engaging and charming doggie look. "See?" She drawled. "He is a complete and utter ham. Sooner lick you to death than bite you."

The dog merely continued gazing at him in an imploring fashion. Rick finally heaved a sigh, deciding to take a chance on them. Morgan and his son had been strangers and he found he could trust them. He holstered his gun before he carefully exited the vehicle, turning to face the great white dog who sat up, chocolate eyes shining brightly, tail slapping the roof in one rhythmic motion, and his great big tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. He let out an excited sound and waved a paw at Rick, who felt a smile tugging at his lips despite everything that had happened since he woke up.

"Rather friendly," he said as he took the paw being presented and shook it. "Ain't you, boy?"

A bark, followed by two yips and a woof was his response.

"Uh...?"

"He's making introductions," Christopher explained.

"I'm afraid I don't speak dog..." Rick replied slowly. "What's he saying?"

"Well, he just told you his name is Krypto." Another bark as the dog looked at the youth. "He said I'm Christopher." Another bark was followed by a woof. "That," he pointed to the dark-haired girl peeking out from behind her mother, "is my sister, Rose." A yip. "And that's our mom, Raya."

The dog looked expectantly at Rick, yipping softly.

"That his way of asking me what my name is?" he drawled.

The boy flashed him a lopsided grin. "Uh-huh."

When he got a chance to sit and really think back on this night, it would hit him about how a  _dog_ , and not the humans, had actually made the official introductions for his family. For now, he just rolled with the flow. It wasn't like this was the most bizarre situation he had found himself in. At least, it wasn't the strangest situation he had found himself  _lately_.

"It's Grimes," he told them with a slight nod. "Rick Grimes."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Officer Grimes," Raya said in those honeyed tones. "Though, I wish our meeting was under much better circumstances."

Rick turned to her. In the faint light being cast by the moon, she —  _Raya_ , he amended, appeared even more delicate than he had first believed her to be. However, there was a lethal grace about her that told him she was more than able of defending herself and her children from any sort of attack. She reminded him of a cat as she came towards him, her body sleek and toned, her every move a rolling extension that seemed to be meticulously planned and executed.

"The pleasure is all mine, ma'am."

She stopped a few steps from him and indicated his chest with a wave of her hand.

"You've lost a good bit of blood from the looks of it."

Rick glanced down and saw how his hand, as well as a large portion of the front of his shirt, was stained red.

"Shit," he muttered. "I didn't think I'd ripped the damn thing open that much."

"You might not have torn it all the way open," Raya informed him in a cool, crisp tone. "A wound like that doesn't need to be a large one in order for it to bleed the most."

Krypto let out a yip and jumped down from the top of the car in one smooth motion that had Rick's eyebrows feathering up. Christopher caught his look and joked, "He's a super dog. He can leap to the top of tall buildings in a single bound."

Rick felt a smile tugging at his lips. "I thought that was Superman?"

The boy shook his head, grinned. "Superman can leap  _over_  a tall building in a single bound."

"Ah, I stand corrected," Rick apologized as he followed him and the super dog, Krypto over to a State Trooper vehicle. He stopped when he spotted the vehicle and cast an amused look at Raya. "You stole a State Trooper vehicle?"

" _Borrowed_ ," she corrected. "I  _borrowed_  a State Trooper vehicle."

" _Borrowed_  suggests that you intend to give it back," he pointed out in a mock-severe tone. "Something I don't think you have any intention of doing."

She handed a pack over to Christopher, who was struggling not to grin before turning to Rick, her eyes twinkling with that earlier impishness.

"Are you gonna arrest me, Sheriff? 'Cause if'n you are, I will warn you that you'll be adding resisting arrest and propositioning an officer to my list of charges."

Rick ignored the heat that pooled in his belly at her not-so-subtle innuendo. He was a married man with a son the same age as hers. He had no right to engage in any sort of flirtatious commentary—even if it was harmless or something normal in this crazy fucked up world they were living. His wife was out there and waiting for him to find her and their son. He chose to open the passenger door and indicate for her to get in with a wave of his hand while watching as Rose and Christopher clambered into the back with Krypto.

Raya took that moment to study—really study his face. Rick's profile was far from perfect. His dark hair was cut short, had a slight curl to it, but was otherwise not styled in any particular way. His skin still held a hint of the tan he had likely acquired from all the hours he spent out of doors. Against it, his eyes were the color of a cloudless summer sky. His nose was straight and narrow, his face a bit thin. The hollows in his cheeks indicated he had been through quite an ordeal recently. By the looks of the stain on the front of his shirt, she would say he was far from over the hurdle. His mouth smiled easily, sensually, the faint lines at the corners suggesting he did so with frequency. The dark shadow of stubble creeping along his jaw and over those angular cheeks turned what she found to be an attractive face into something incredibly sexy. A spark snapped inside her, warm and bright. She felt...  _alive_. Chilly where the air whisked over her dewy skin. Hot in the belly where desire and attraction burned.

If her cousin, Barbara had been there, she would have joked about how her physical response to Rick was her brain finally acknowledging about how there was more to life than psychological theories, behavior patterns, and complex neuropsychological puzzles. Not that there was anywhere that her momentary burst of desire could go. The white band of skin circling his ring finger spoke loud and clear about there never being anything- beyond friendship - between them. It was enough, though, to still be able to feel anything beyond the mind-numbing grief and fear of the past several weeks.

"We should get going. It's going to be light soon." He heaved a long, weary sigh. "We don't want to get caught out here on the road."

Raya shook off her internal musings and looked at him once more. His color may have been good, but he looked close to the breaking point. His shirt front had a baseball-sized stain on it and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes that told her he hadn't slept well in days.  _Who can sleep in a world that is slowly being overrun by an all new, and even more dangerous predator than man, himself_? He wouldn't stop, though. Not until he knew they were safe. And that, she knew, was because Rick Grimes was a good man, a moralistic man, a just man.  _Just like Uncle Jim, Bruce, Dick, Tim, Jason, Barry and Clark are_ , she thought as she set a hand atop where his was curled around the top of the door.

"You're one of a rapidly dying breed, Rick Grimes." She waited until those electric eyes lifted to hers before saying, "Don't let this crazy world we're living take who you are away from you."

"If I can manage to survive being shot and in a coma while all this was going down?" he lightly joked. "Well, then I can survive just about anything that this world decides to throw at me."

"I hope so, Rick," she replied as she got into the Bronco. "I really do hope so."

"This world won't change me," he assured her. "I won't let it."

However, as Rick made his way around to the driver's side, that little blonde girl in stained pajamas and bunny slippers swam across his visual field. She quickly turned into another girl, one with a smile as mischievous as her mother's before becoming a pre-teen with eyes like his son's, and then finally into his own son.  _What will you do to protect him_? A sly voice taunted. He smacked the images away as he started the Bronco and drove off into what he hoped would not turn out to be that long good night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They came across another car graveyard a short time later. Rick navigated the Bronco through the maze of steel coffins with an expert hand. His face may have betrayed nothing, but the way his eyes shifted from left to right told her he searched every vehicle they passed for some sign or clue of his missing wife and son. Every empty vehicle magnified his fear, grief, and frustration. It snapped in the depths of his eyes, as bold and as clear as the rips of lightning that ripped the twilight blanket covering the mountains rising up in the distance.

She desperately wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to let him know she understood everything he was going through at that moment. She was going through it, too. Even knowing her family as she did, she did still fear for their safety. She wished she could tell him it was gonna be okay, that he would find his wife and son safe at the end of the yellow brick road, but she couldn't. Not because she didn't think there wasn't any hope of him finding them, oh, no. It was more because she knew this new world they lived in offered no guarantees.

She'd figured that out long before Rick Grimes came into her life. She'd figured it out, in fact, on the night Jeffrey Wilkes returned home with other neighbors and friends as a member of the walking dead, all of them intent on doing one thing: feeding...

...

**Blue Ridge, Georgia**

_10 days after the outbreak_

Word came down just after midnight about another mob gathering outside their barricade. The hodgepodge barrier had been fashioned from old fencing, abandoned vehicles, metal sheeting and reinforced by cinder blocks and heavy stone prevented the hungry horde from reaching the nourishment they instinctively knew to be on the other side of the wall. The walkers moaned their collective frustration, their confusion, pleading for relief from the starvation that gnawed upon their backbones with the ferocity of a pack of hyenas. The horde of undead repeatedly walked into the wood structure, slapped at it with palms that no longer felt the roughness of the wood against them, tore at it with nails that cracked and split down to the bone. People inside the camp shouted in order to stir the others from their beds. Dozens of windows got thrown open so that angry, fearful and distraught faces could stare out in order to see for themselves what the commotion was about. Many watched with bated breath to see whether or not the reconstructed walls would keep the undead from getting inside the camp.

As if the barrier had been constructed from sand, the planks splintered beneath the collective weight of so many bodies repeatedly shoving against it. One huge section of fence came down with a roar that rattled the windows of every house that lined the first half of the street. It was a sound the walkers could hear, but which they no longer had any auditory system left in which to translate into sensical sound. They felt the vibrations as they traveled through the bottoms of their cracked and peeling feet, up their spindly legs and into their spines to where it triggered the only autonomic reflex they had remaining to them.

A massive dirt cloud kicked up where the huge chunk smashed down upon the dry ground, obscuring the pack from the view of those who waited for them to appear with their hearts slamming like pistons against their ribcages. The wait did not turn out to be a long one. The first handful of figures staggered through the huge ball of dust, each one bound and determined to rid themselves of an ache that refused to go away, no matter how much they fed.

They emerged from the fog, some coming one by one, others two by four, and more still three by five. They fanned out like a pack of wolves, each and everyone ready to attack as one deadly force. From her own vantage point atop her roof, Raya could see how all of the undead were in various stages of death and decomposition. None were aware that their flesh was slowly peeling away from their bones, or that fragments of necrotic muscle and tissue dripped like gooey rain behind them, or that with every bumbling step they took their tendons snapped, cracked and popped like Rice Krispies. Each and every man and woman who came through that opening was completely oblivious to the fact that the only reason for why they still functioned was because their brains were unable to perform the system shutdown necessary to grant them release from the curse that this cold, cruel and calculating world placed upon them.

Inside the makeshift camp, people scattered like roaches when the Orkin man showed up. Doors slamming drowned out the atonal chorus of the damned. Rifle barrels protruded from second-floor windows, barking fire and filling the night air with the smell of cordite and blood. Children shrieked in terror and searched for any place to hide until the worst of the storm had passed. Some of the creatures went down in the bursts of gunfire, but Raya, much like everyone else, saw they didn't remain down for long. _So, gunshots tend to have about as much effect upon them as a taser would_. The thought was not a comforting one. With rising dread, she watched as other members of the horde took errant bullets to their chest and abdominal cavities, barely flinching at the pain, and with many not even recognizing they had been shot, much less wounded.

Gunfire continued to echo from all directions as the swarm of undead moved forward with steadfast determination, unbelievable precision, and ferocious intent. The stench of so many undead bodies collected in one place rose up like floodwaters, clogging the air with the acrid stench of pus, blood, and rancid flesh. The collective clamor of the undead reminded Raya of the buzzing of bees, their dissonant moans muting out all other ambient sounds save for their pitiful pleas. Some of the undead pulled mangled, putrefied legs behind them as if they were huge chains trying to fasten them to the parched earth. Others stumbled towards those who had been brave enough to have crept out from their homes in order to fire at the mob. Their internal organs hung out from the gaping holes that had been carved into their abdominal and chest cavities, their heads lolling back and forth like bobble heads, and their gaping maws dripping maggots and worms in their wake. People quickly started to run out of bullets, options, and hope.

Jonas McGrath found himself caught between the frenzied undead and the barrage of bullets being fired by his friends and neighbors. He remained crouched beside an old blue Chevy, his shock keeping him from making any sort of race to safety. He clearly had no idea that the fear dripping down his face only made him smell like a Christmas goose to the walkers until a large group of them slowly turned in his direction. One of the walkers, a woman who Raya recognized as Donna Stevens, stumbled towards Jonas, whining pathetically with her want, and her need for sustenance.

So fixated was she upon assuaging her terrible demand for a taste of his salt glazed flesh that she barely felt the bullets that slammed into her back, side, and right thigh. She continued coming towards him, stretching out gnarled, blackened fingers, but the younger man came to his senses before she could sink her talons into him, squawking a curse as he rolled out of her reach. Donna grunted her annoyance and gave chase, but Jonas made a break for it when a stray round slammed into her thigh and dropped her down to one knee. The ginger-haired man found himself surrounded by the rest of a mob hellbent upon satisfying their thirst, same as Donna.

"Help me! Somebody, please, help me!"

People turned in his direction, taking aim as he fought his way to freedom, but a stray bullet clipped his side, and he was thrown back down to the ground.

"Help!"

Donna and the others all descended upon him in one collective rush, their howls muting out Jonas's high-pitched shrieks of pain and terror.

"Help me!" he pleaded. "Somebody, please! Help me!"

Raya stood, every ounce of the crime fighter inside her screaming at her to go and do something that would help him escape before the horde ripped him to shreds. The rational part of her mind, the one that she couldn't shut off no matter how hard she tried, told her about how there was absolutely nothing she could do, save for stand here and watch as an innocent man became food for the new predators taking over the world.

Nausea rolled greasily in her belly as the animals ripped into Jonas, Donna on his left side, chewing through the faded blue of his denim into his thickly muscled thigh, and straight through to the vein underneath while a boy that looked maybe all of fifteen ripped into Jonas's throat, tearing open his jugular with his razor sharp teeth. Blood spurted in a sanguineous version of _Old Faithful_ , coating the youth and the rest of the monsters in a thick coating of sticky magma that brought more of his undead brethren to join in on the feast. Raya, as well as the rest of the once quiet neighborhood, were all forced to watch Jonas get reduced to nothing more than a quivering mass of flesh and bone, twitching and gurgling, as the scraggly youth and the others all shared his face and intestines. Raya counted the seconds that it took for the poor man to stop moving in heartbeats.

It took ten, long and agonizingly slow beats before the end thankfully came.

Not that any of the walkers who chewed on what remained of Jonas, cared. All that mattered to them, all they cared about, all they knew was that at that moment the hunger that had been religiously dogging them was satiated. The undead horde was so intent on feeding that they never noticed a man in a flannel button down with the sleeves ripped off slowly curve around the corner of Ellen and Troy Jones's house, eyes narrowed intently upon the oblivious horde, his lean body rippling with every step he took. Raya spotted the man from out the corner of her eye and turned to watch as he hefted up a Horton Scout HD 125 crossbow in his well-muscled arms. The confident and cool way he held the weapon more than told her that he was quite adept at wielding it.

And that he was quite intent on _using_ it, too.

Whatever words she might have shouted at the man, and she wasn't rightly sure what she was even going to yell at him, died before they could even form. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she watched the young boy tear off one of Jonas's finger at the same time as the sandy-haired stranger took aim with that weapon of death he cradled so lovingly. Her breath came in tattered rasps as she watched as the undead teen chewed on his proliferated digit, completely oblivious to the fact that the hunter's finger was curved around the trigger of that weapon he held so calmly.

Every ounce of her rebelled at what she knew was about to happen. The crime fighter inside her begged her to leap from the roof and save the boy from his intended fate. The rational side of her screamed at her about how she would be torn apart in seconds if she attempted to save the teen. Resigned frustration careened around inside her. She had never felt so helpless; so useless. Being forced to do nothing, beyond stand there and watch as the once-human boy swallowed his tasty morsel as the man fired a bolt from that crossbow, was the most bitter pill she had ever had to swallow.

The teen never heard the familiar _thwack_ as the bolt pierced through the fetid air, flying straight and true as it streaked right towards him.

He never felt as that bolt, its green and orange feathers the only color to be seen amidst so much gray, slammed through the back of his skull, airbrushing swatches of blood and rancid brain matter all over the side of that old, beat-up Chevy.

Quite simply, the kid who should have been worrying about things like getting his driver's license, reaching first base with a girl or boy who'd caught his eye, and what college he would be attending once he graduated high school, didn't have to worry about anything.

Not anymore, at least.

Raya watched the kid's emaciated figure slump to the ground, her heart heavy as a musket ball, and her soul bleeding for the family who likely were out there and grieving for his loss. For a moment, she imagined that boy to be her own son, Christopher. They were about the same age, she saw, with similar lanky builds and tastes in clothing. They had the same shade of hair styled in that just got out of bed fashion. Their skin looked to be about that same golden hue that all outdoor types tended to sport, their eyes could even be the same deep shade of green. For all intents and purposes, that boy down there could have been hers.

A boy who was now one of the undead because nobody in the free world had been able to stop him from getting infected by whatever the hell was causing people to die and then come back to life. A teen who would never know all the wonders that awaited him because some asshole, organization or biological event decided it was time to eradicate the human race. Her vision fractured as she stared at that unmoving figure, anticipating that at any moment he would rise up, as so many of the others who'd been shot had, and continue feeding upon what little remained of Jonas. The seconds ticked by, one by one, but the boy didn't get up to again walk the Earth.

_What the_ …? Raya watched, stupefied, as the man stalked forward and yanked his crossbow bolt from out of the boy's cranium and reload it. _Is that boy actually… dead? S_ he wondered. _No, that's impossible. Nothing kills the undead_. Military personnel, what few members of law enforcement that remained, as well as people who knew how to fire automatic weapons had all shot these things, most often to no avail. _So what did this man do that they had not_? Her brow puckered with the depth of her musings. Raya looked more closely at the still figure, but the boy didn't blink so much as an eyelid. Both of her eyebrows shot up at the same time as there was another _thwack._ She looked and saw that a female member of the undead had joined her teenage companion in the great beyond. _So_ , Raya mused as she watched the man stroll forward with cool and casual reassurance to reclaim his twice-used bolt, _head shots are what officially stop the undead_. _That's… interesting_.

That she had actually managed to find something fascinating about these monstrous creatures should have disturbed her. At the very least, her enthrallment with these undead beings should have had her circling a date on the calendar for when she would commit herself to Arkham for a seventy-two-hour psych evaluation. However, it didn't. As she watched the man continue to eliminate the undead with the same type of ruthless efficiency that her family used to bring down Gotham's criminals, she reasoned that part of her interest stemmed from the fact that she was a doctor and viewing the undead as the complex puzzle they actually were. Now that her initial shock and fear had worn off, she could properly view the undead for what they were: complex puzzles. And she could, in her own bizarre way, appreciate the technical aspects of whatever this virus or adaptation was. How the infected had come to be was now the greatest mystery known to mankind. Figuring out the answer, what the who, why and how was what Bruce had taught her to do.

Seeing whatever this was, acknowledging that it was complex by its very nature and design was how she processed the problem she was attempting to solve. Seeing the physical and psychological toll that this virus had taken upon those infected, though, also served to remind her of how humans were, at their very core, nothing more than walking, talking, thinking and feeling computers. The body was little more than a soft gel casing that served to house and protect the intricate mainframe that operated, controlled and executed every one of their central processes: the brain. She'd already reasoned out that it was something in the brain that was preventing death from occurring. It made sense that only by manually shutting down the brain could they finally put a stop to these creatures. Yet, simmering just below her sick, morbid fascination with this revelation was a volcanic rush of disquiet and disgust. The creatures swarming the street below had been human once upon a time. Underneath it all, these things were still human beings, many of whom who had never done anything wrong in their lives.

Logistically, she knew that killing them was what she had to do. She knew it was the only thing she could do. However, it went against everything her and her family believed in. They all, with the exception of Jason and their littlest bird, Damian, had willfully pledged to uphold Bruce's rule about never taking a life. _Not even if that life really deserved to be ended_ , she thought as the image of a pasty-faced freak rose in her mind. However, the other side of her, the one that was trained as a doctor, whispered about how granting mercy to the damned was nowhere the same as cold-blooded murder. Even the man below was not killing these hapless creatures with the same brutal disregard as men like the Joker, Penguin or Two-Face would.

It was simply a matter of survival for him.

For her, though, it was absolutely unthinkable. These people hadn't asked to be turned into monsters. They hadn't been given a choice in what was going to happen to them. They hadn't been told about what would become of them. And they definitely didn't deserve to be callously put down just because that was what they had become. Even as she thought it, the man with the crossbow used the knife that was in a leather sheath by his thigh to take out another of the undead before they could tear into him as the female and teenaged boy had ripped into poor Jonas.

"Mom?" she heard Christopher whisper. "Mom? What's going on?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Day ten of the outbreak (a minute later) ..._

Raya shifted to her left in order to look into her oldest child's face, seeing the shock and the worry that deepened his eyes to nearly forest green and aching for that pain. And for him. Again, the thought about how the boy below could have been her son flittered through her mind, tearing more holes into her soul and causing her heart, even more, misery. _Not you_ , she told her son silently. _This world won't get you or your sister. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that you survive this madness_.

She would sell her own soul if that was what was needed.

"Mom?" Christopher repeated when she didn't answer. "What's going on?"

Raya swallowed back her fear and gave him a reassuring smile.

"Another horde has managed to get inside the camp is all," she told him in a subdued voice. "They got Jonas McGrath."

She saw the color drain from his face.

"Another horde has gotten around the walls?" At her nod, he ran a hand through his hair, in much the same way his father would whenever the shit was hitting the fan. "How many have gotten in this time?"

"Too many."

"What are we going to do?"

It was the million-dollar question. However, she didn't have an answer for what to do. There wasn't anything they could do. She promised Barry they would stay here until either he or Clark came to get them. Twenty days remained on that agreement. Until then, they would stay right where they were and avoid the undead masses the best they could.

"You are going to go back inside," she ordered gently. "And help Rose with locking the house down."

"But-"

"Go on, Kai." She used his Kryptonian name to soften her tone. "You don't need to see this."

Christopher merely rolled his eyes and huffed, "There you go being a mom again."

She didn't smile, but her face, as did her heart, softened. As it always did where this boy was concerned.

"I am a mom. I'm _your_ mom, in fact."

"Do ya gotta act like it all the time, though?" he groused. "I mean, geez."

"Sorry, kid, just not a switch to turn off mom mode."

"Couldn't you, like, invent one?" she heard Christopher saying in a joking tone. "Please?"

She snorted a laugh and indicated for him to go back inside with a wave of her hand. Movement out of the corner of her eye had her glancing back down at the street. The hunter had crawled up into the bed of the truck and was taking aim at another creature who was trying to grasp hold of him with mangled fingers. _I need to help him_ , she thought. _He can't fight off so many of the infected on his own. Nobody can_. Doing and saying were completely at odds with each other, though. To help the hunter she had to cross boundaries she had never once dared to cross. When a woman she thought she recognized grabbed his leg she firmed her resolve, swallowed down the bile that rushed into her throat and reached for one of the arrows in her quiver. She froze when a shrill voice, that of Helen Wilkes, rang out across the square and caused the entire world to come screeching to a halt.

"Jeremy!" Helen shouted. "Jeremy, come back here!"

Raya heard the woman's terrified shrieks and swung around to see a mother's worst night unfolding right before her. A little boy, all of three or four, in a faded set of Captain America pajamas, ran across the street as quickly as his chubby little legs could carry him.

"Daddy!" The little boy sobbed. "Daddy!"

Seeing Jeremy running towards Jeffrey Wilkes was all Raya needed in order to figure out who the boy's _daddy_ was. Only, Jeffrey was no longer concerned about things like his son's safety and well-being. All that mattered to him was feasting upon the small bit of Jonas he had secured for himself. As a mother, Raya could well imagine the hell that Helen Wilkes was in at that moment. She knew Helen felt like she was being tossed off the observation deck of the Empire State Building and plummeting at breakneck speed towards the waiting streets below. It was a hellish scene no parent ever wanted to endure. One she knew Bruce and her uncle Jim had been made to endure countless times after she or one of her siblings decided to rush headlong into danger.

Helen Wilkes wasn't a crime fighter, though. She wasn't accustomed to having the shit hit the fan, much less having it splatter in quite this way. She had never had to be the one who stood between her child and those who intended to cause him harm. Until a few short weeks ago, the monsters were just something that she kept Jeremy from watching on television, that she and her husband had to chase out of his closet, or continually remind about not being real. Time slowed to a crawl as Raya watched the small boy toddle towards where what remained of the man who had fathered him, who should rightfully be the one protecting him from the things shuffling along the street, was busily rooting around for another piece of meat to stuff in the gaping maw that had once served as his mouth.

"Daddy!" the little boy continued to cry. "Daddy!"

 _Daddy_ might have paid him no mind, but the _animal_ that Jeffrey Wilkes had become fixated upon the oblivious boy with the hunger of a dozen hyenas shining in his eyes.

"That's not your daddy, honey!" Helen shouted at the toddler from her second-floor window, her ashen face a contorted mask of fear and horror and grief. "That's not your daddy!"

It was no use, though. The toddler was simply too young and far too fixated upon reaching the man that he recognized as his daddy. Raya knew there was nothing, save for an act of God, that was going to stop the small boy from reaching his father.

"Daddy!" Jeremy stumbled and fell down to the ground. "Daddy!"

"Jeremy!" Helen white-knuckled the windowsill as she leaned out to sob, "Someone, stop him! Please!"

Doors flew open as a few more stalwart souls braved the horde in order to try and reach the clueless little boy. Raya calculated the distance between them and the boy. None of them would be able to reach him. _At least not with there being enough time to get him, as well as themselves, back to safety,_ she thought. The one option they had came from the only man who stood a snowball's chance in hell of reaching the boy before the monsters. She spun towards the man with the crossbow, but the breath she had been planning to use in order to call down to him about the boy gurgled to a gasp when she saw he was busy fighting off three members of the undead all by himself.

Waiting behind those three creatures were four more monsters in varying stages of decay, pale eyes burning with the same hunger as the three he was attempting to fight off. Fear for the man's life caused icy tendrils of pain to radiate across her chest and outwards to where her other pressure points were already coiled tighter than a clock spring. Instincts honed over a very long apprenticeship kicked in, blowing open all the doors she had sealed shut when she'd chosen to give up being a crime fighter in favor of being a full-time mom to her children. Even though ten years had passed since she last put on her mask, she still made the seamless shift from _Dr. Raya Kean_ into the woman who had once been known by all of Gotham's underbelly as the _Fenix_.

"Kai," she snapped out as she ran through every possible scenario in her mind in an attempt to find one that was going to rescue Jeremy and the man both from the advancing mob. "Take up my bow and help out the man with the crossbow, okay?"

"How?" Christopher crawled out the attic window to crouch beside her on the roof. "Nothing seems to stop the undead. Well," he amended with a grimace. "Nothing stops them for very long."

"You aren't trying to stop them for very long. Just long enough so that man can get somewhere safe."

"And how am I supposed to accomplish that? By waving my magic wand? Or casting some spell that will return the undead to where they belong?"

She cut him a look that told him he had better watch himself before telling him, "You can try and slow them down by pinning them to fences, electrical poles, and the sides of houses if you can."

"And if that doesn't work? What then?"

It was an honest set of questions. And they deserved the same kind of answer in response. She just wasn't sure that Christopher was ready to hear what she was going to tell him. She'd only just managed to accept the hard truth herself. As mature and intelligent as her son was, as well equipped as he was in how to handle most all disasters, he was still only a twelve-year-old boy. A single thought rolled through her mind after that: _He's going to have to grow up and fast if he wants to survive this apocalypse_.

Her fingers balled at her sides as the truth washed over her in waves. Just because it was the truth, though, didn't mean she had to either like it, or what it was requiring her to do. She was Christopher's mother, after all. She was supposed to be protecting him from things like this. She was the one who was supposed to keep him safe, to shield him from this sort of shit storm, to protect him from all the things that would try and take his innocence from him.

'Ain't teachin' him how ta walk like a man one of those things you're responsible for, Kit?' A voice that distinctly sounded like her younger brother, Jason's, echoed inside her head. 'Ya left all this crap we deal with behind in order ta raise him and Rosebud up without the fear of some pasty-faced freak or toxin-wielding nutcase houndin' 'em, but ya didn't stop ta consider that the damned dead could rise. Or that ya'd have ta teach 'em ta be like me.'

How could she - much less anyone else - have known that this was going to happen? How could she have known that when she gave up being a crime fighter in order to be a real mom to her children that the dead would rise? Or that the only solution for how to survive this uprising was by doing the one thing she'd spent her entire life avoiding? Raya turned back to the hunter as she internally debated about how to rip the last shreds of childhood away from her son.

Without a moment's thought or hesitation, the man stabbed his hunting knife through the right eye socket of what looked to be the husk of a man she recalled working at the local farmer's market. It was a brutal but extremely effective way of stopping the man before he could wrap his blackened fingers around the man's arm. It was also another firm reminder about what the survivors of this apocalypse needed to do if they wanted to stop these monsters from killing them. _It's Us versus Them_ , she thought with a heavy sigh. _Just as it's always been_. Only this time, the game was being played with a much different set of rules. And with a whole lot more at stake.

"Mom?" Christopher called softly. "What am I supposed to do if that doesn't slow them down?"

"If that doesn't work to slow them down..." She paused to swallow back the revulsion that foamed in her mouth. "Aim for their head."

"Aim for their head?" Christopher frowned his confusion. "Why do you want me aiming for their heads?"

"Because that's what puts the undead down for good."

"But-" she heard the horror and disgust that crackled in his voice; saw it ripple across his face from the corner of her eye. "We don't take lives. Ever."

Raya spared time that she really didn't have to turn and comfort her oldest child.

"We don't take lives," she agreed with a slight nod. "About that, you're right. And," she said above Helen's anguished cries, "I hate that I am ordering you to do so. However," and her voice became that tempered steel one that she used whenever she meant business. "At this moment, and until I say otherwise, that is what I am telling you to do. If you have no other option available to you?" She looked into eyes so like her own. "You aim for their heads. Understand?"

Christopher looked like he was going to argue the point more, but another scream shattered the night. Raya looked up in time to see Jane Straus being gutted by five members of the undead. Her stomach pitched violently as blood rained down the older woman's throat and chest. Christopher went to look, but she turned her body in order to block his view.

"Mom," he groused. "You can't ask me to-"

"This world is going to require us to do enough despicable things in order to survive," she gritted. "You watching as a good person is mutilated is not one of them."

"And yet," he deadpanned, "you expect me to shoot them? Isn't that a bit on the hypocritical side?"

 _Patience_ , Raya realized, was what a parent most needed to have during an apocalypse.

"Just do as I ask," she said as calmly as she could. "Okay?"

Christopher finally sighed and muttered, "Fine," before reaching for the bow and the quiver of arrows she had grabbed before coming out here to stand watch. More screams echoed from below. Raya glanced over her shoulder in time to see a trio of undead had joined Jeffrey in watching the toddler, who was steadily making his way towards them. Two adults in shredded, worm-eaten clothing and with their throats slashed all locked eyes upon the suckling pig running amuck the wolves.

"Go," Christopher told her as he swung her quiver onto his back and stood. "Go and save Jeremy."

It was all she needed to hear. Every muscle in Raya's body primed for action. Every ligament bunched as she prepared to take flight. She might not be as fast as the Flash, Superman or even her own son, but she had the speed necessary in which to get that boy out of the way of the monsters who'd tear him in two without a backward glance or thought. And getting that little boy out of danger was all that mattered to her at that moment. Her mind emptied of every thought, save for that one. Every ambient sound became a distantly muffled one as she fixated upon the task at hand. The only thing she could see was that small figure as he continued to barrel down the street towards the man who no longer had any idea that he had a son. She sprang into motion at the same moment that the hunter caught wind of the situation.

She counted the seconds in heartbeats.

One second for her to leap from the roof to the thick branch of the tree just waiting to assist her in her daring rescue...

Three seconds for her to flip backward and drop down to the ground…

Five seconds in order to cover the three feet between her and the child, unaware of the danger he was placing himself in...

Ten to scoop the boy up into her arms and turn back just as the body that once belonged to Jeffrey Wilkes lurched towards her…

And half a beat more for the man with the crossbow to take aim with his weapon and fire off another bolt. Jeffrey crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll as Jeremy shrieked and buried his face against the curve of her neck. Two bullets, fired in rapid succession took care of the other two undead.

"Hell's the matter with you?" The man snapped at her as he prowled, like a jungle cat, over to where she stood in the middle of the street, clutching Jeremy's shivering form against her. "Am I the only one around here with a damn lick of sense?"

Jeremy started crying at hearing that sharp tone. Raya took a moment to murmur nonsensical words to him in order to comfort him before flicking a quick look at the man who had startled him with his grousing.

"Your barking is only managing to scare him even more than he already is." She kept her tone low in order to avoid scaring Jeremy further. "Dial it down, please?"

He sniffed, indicating what he thought of her rebuke, but when he next spoke, she noticed he gentled his voice.

"Kid oughta be terrified." He waved his hand towards where the wave of undead was making their way up the road towards them. "Geeks are crawling all over the damn place and won't hesitate to tear him apart."

Jeremy started to whimper at the hunter's reminder about how the monsters he imagined to be beneath his bed were actually walking the streets and eating people. _His own dad had been one of them until the hunter took him down_. She heaved a long breath as she held the boy just a bit tighter in order to reassure him that the monsters weren't going to get him. _Not while this man is around_ , she told him as she crooned to him. No, something told her that anything that tried to attack Jeremy would have to go through this man, first. She had seen how easily he wore a _fuck-with-me_ attitude while watching him from her roof. Something told her that attitude extended to small children as well. Jerkish he might be, but she sensed there was a good heart beating beneath that dirty red flannel muscle shirt. Still, reminding a little boy about all the things he had only imagined to be real wasn't exactly the best way to either comfort him or reassure him.

"You're not helping him," she stated in a low tone, "by reminding him about how all the things he fears are actually real."

"He gotta learn."

Raya slowly lifted her head, a blistering retort forming upon her lips about how it wasn't up to him to decide what Jeremy needed to learn and when, but she found herself stunned into silence the moment her eyes met his. Eyes as blue as the sapphire earrings Bruce had given her for her last birthday, blue as the cloudless summer skies she'd come to love Georgia for having, blue as the waters that surrounded the Hawaiian Islands stared out at her from a face that could have been carved from granite. They were the eyes of a hard man, one who was prideful and strong, who was unpredictable and untamed, who had faced everything that hell had to throw at him and somehow managed to come out alive.

 _Alive_ , she thought as she ran a hand through Jeremy's honey-colored curls. _But he definitely has not come out of whatever ordeal he's gone through completely unscathed_.

No, this man had most definitely been wounded by whatever it was that the world had done to him. And his scars, she saw, ran deep. Much deeper even than her own. For a full minute, she studied that unfathomable face, taking in that strong patriarchal nose, his determined chin, those patrician features. His eyes were deep-set beneath arched brows the color of wet sand and framed by a pair of thick, sable lashes. He hadn't shaved, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw and over those angular cheeks turned what was already an arresting face into something that was edgy and strong.

Ah, but it was those damned eyes of his that were proving to be her ultimate undoing. Raya found herself helplessly lost, drowning in the ocean of raw, naked emotions she could see lurking at the bottom of those magnetic orbs. An animal-like magnetism poured off him, telling her he wasn't a man to trifle with. His lips, held in a hard, uncompromising line, told her little. Indeed, that was her summation of his face, one meant to conceal the majority of his thoughts, inner pain and deeper emotions from chance observers.

Well, she wasn't a chance observer.

She just didn't know _what_ she was.

Not yet, at least.

What she did know with nearly a hundred percent certainty was that this man burned with the same restless intensity she did, that he was dominated by that same sort of emptiness that she knew to be loneliness and that he silently hungered for things that he would deny himself from having simply because he didn't believe he deserved to have any of those things. _Who hurt you_? she silently asked as she stared into his eyes. _Who made you think that you aren't worthy of love? That you don't deserve happiness_?

_Who made you think that you're a nothing?_

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Ten days continued..._

"Why you staring at me like that?" he grumbled after a few seconds of tense silence passed. "Huh? I got guts on my face or somethin'?"

"Like what?"

"You damn well know like what."

"No," she softly denied. "I honestly don't."

"Don't play cute with me."

"I am not playing cute with you," Raya retorted with a roll of her eyes. "I have no reason to play cute with you."

A muscle twitched in his jaw and told her that he was holding onto his temper by a thread. Raya tried to read his thoughts but found the language to be foreign and frustrating.

"I said quit it."

"Please." She did her best to keep her voice neutral. "Explain to me what you think I am doing and I will do my best to stop doing it."

"You know what you're doing. Why you pretendin' you don't?"

"I'm not pretending." She angled her head in order to study his face a bit better. "I honestly do not know what it is that I am doing that is irritating you so much."

"And you want me to waste time by explainin' it." There was a bite, a quick, nasty little nip in his tone that caused Jeremy to cry. "As if I ain't got better things to do here."

"Stop." A quiet warning. "You're spooking him."

He _tutted_. "Kid shouldn't be out here in the first damn place."

"None of us should be out here."

"We could get the hell off the street if you'd quit eyeballin' me."

"Again, I don't understand why my looking at you is such a problem."

"Quit beatin' about the bush and knock it off."

"I'm not beating about the bush."

He gave her a look that told her he didn't believe that for one minute. Raya sniffed. As if she was the type of woman to act coy without there being a reason behind the deception. _Like when I needed to convince Major Gavin Rossi that I was a frightened woman with two teenagers to take care of_ , she thought as she rubbed Jeremy's back in slow, soothing circles. Something told her that this man wouldn't buy her weak and helpless woman act.

"You're staring is what you're doing."

"No, I'm not."

A glimpse of that bite flashed in those icy depths for a moment.

"The hell you ain't."

Raya swallowed the caustic retort that sprang to mind. Starting an argument with him while they were standing in the middle of the street wasn't going to accomplish anything.

"I told you to quit it."

His brusque command had Raya's eyebrows feathering up. She found herself more curious than annoyed at his authoritative tone. She studied him through lowered lashes. His body was as taut as the string on his crossbow, his face wary and guarded, his eyes hooded and watchful. _Much like a cat that has been cornered_. And just like with any cat, one wrong move could cause him to attack. Not physically, though. There was something about him that said he'd never lash out against her or any woman with physical force.

Just because he wouldn't hit her didn't mean he could not still hurt her. She had learned a long time ago that words could hurt even more than a slap to the face. And that there were times when a smack was preferred to the ugly things that could be said in the heat of the moment. _That's not the type of man he is_ , she decided as she glanced up to where Christopher was watching, face ashen beneath the gold of his tan. She gave him a reassuring smile before looking back at her testy companion.

"Again I am compelled to ask about what it is that you think I am doing." Raya hoisted Jeremy higher in her arms and glanced over her right shoulder to gauge where the horde was. Most had been dealt with. Only a couple still roamed the street. That didn't mean more weren't coming, though. "I'm not technically _doing_ anything but standing here and looking at you while I hold Jeremy in my arms."

He took two menacing steps towards her before gritting, "You know your ass has been starin' me down the last couple of minutes."

Jeremy whimpered and burrowed more tightly against her.

"Quit it," she ordered as she soothed the shivering boy. "You're scaring him with all your snarling."

He retreated five steps, mumbling, "I ain't gonna hurt him," as he went. "Or you."

It was, even more, evidence to support her growing opinion about there being a good and decent man beneath that gruff exterior. _You have to wear a mask, too, don't you_? she asked him silently. _You have to pretend to be someone other than who you are in order to avoid being hurt_.

"This is not about him thinking that you could hurt him. Or me for that matter."

"Oh, yeah? Then just what is it about, Dr. Freud?"

"It's Dr. Kean," she shot back before she could stop herself. "I am Dr. Raya Kean."

"And?"

"And growling like that?" Raya took a non-threatening step towards him. "That's what scaring the bejesus out of him."

"Well, I wouldn't be growling if'n you weren't tryin' to stare my ass down."

"I am _not_ staring you down," she informed him pertly. "I am merely being respectful and looking you in the eye while you bark at me."

"Yeah, well." He sniffed, once, before looking towards the gate. "Quit it."

Raya had moments — rare and infrequent as a blue moon, in fact — where she was compelled to act just like the imp that Bruce affectionately called her. Why she felt the urge to tease this man, and at a time like this, she didn't know. However, there was a little devil doing a jig on her shoulder and urging her to push his buttons just a tad bit more because it sounded like it could be a whole lotta fun.

"I think I finally understand what it means to look as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."

That bit of sass earned her a glower that would have made many a Gotham criminal turn tail and run. _Clearly, he doesn't have much of a sense of humor_. Not that she could blame him. It was hard to crack jokes and smile when you were watching the free world go all to hell.

"You gettin' smart with me?"

Her brain told her to hush up, but her mouth was set on rapid fire.

"Better than pretending to be a dumb ass."

"Watch it," he warned.

"And what is it that I am watching?" She swept the street with her free hand. "Besides the entire world as we knew it go down in a blaze of glory?"

"Can the attitude."

She was about to call the pot black there when she heard Helen screaming her name. Raya turned her body so that the terrified woman could see that her son was okay, that he had not been bitten or scratched, and was no longer in any immediate danger. The woman sagged against her sister in obvious relief, weeping uncontrollably. Raya felt for the woman. _If it had been Rose or Chris who'd been in danger_ … she didn't even allow herself to complete that thought. She glanced back at the man — _Tarzan_ , she decided in a flash of inspiration. _Until I learn his given name, if I ever learn his name_ , she amended with a sigh, _that's what I am going to call him. Tarzan_.

"Why does my looking at you bother you so much? Is it because you're afraid I will be taken in by your pretty face?"

He rolled his eyes at that. "Hellbent on sassing me." He reloaded his crossbow. "Ain't you?"

"I am having fun baiting you, yes," she admitted with a rueful grin. "I just can't seem to help myself."

"Yeah?" He flicked her a baleful look. "And why's that?"

"It's cute seeing you get your fur all ruffled."

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "I done told you to cut it out."

"You also told me to stop looking at you."

"Yup." He gave a short, jerky nod of his head. "Cut that shit out, too."

Again, her mouth was set on automatic fire.

"I like looking at you, though."

"Quit it." There was an edge now to his voice and face that told her she had finally reached the limits of what guff he was going to take of her. " _Now_."

The doctor and the detective combined to analyze why her looking at him bothered him as much as it did. Seemingly, the issue arose only when she looked him directly in the eye. _Means he's hypersensitive about people reading him and figuring out his secrets_ , she thought as she glanced down at the boy in her arms. _Tells me that whatever happened to him is something that he's clearly ashamed of and doesn't want people knowing about_.

It was a huge red flag for Raya, who had not only survived her own torrid upbringing with an emotionally and physically abusive monster but who chose to counsel other domestic violence survivors. She was spared from having to say anything more by a member of the undead tottering out from behind the service vehicle that had been abandoned in the middle of the street when the call to evacuate had come a short time back.

The man — or what was left of him at this point — tottered towards the hunter with his colorless hands outstretched, his jaw clacking and droning his never-ending song of hunger. What little remained of the left side of his face hung in gooey pieces from his skull. Before Raya could call out a warning to Tarzan, he spun, hoisting the crossbow up in one fluid movement and shooting the man in the forehead as if it was the simplest thing in the world to do.

"Shut up," he told the thing. He tossed a glance at her that brimmed with a conglomerate of thoughts and emotions. "You touched in the head or somethin'?"

"No," Raya huffed. "I am not touched in the head. Why do you assume that I am?"

"'Cause your ass clearly don't know when to leave well enough alone." He yanked the bolt free from the undead person's head. Raya felt bile form in the back of her throat as blood and brain matter splashed across her boots and jeans. Her face must have registered that she was about to throw up because Tarzan rolled his eyes and muttered, "You best not puke."

"I assure you," she managed around the lava bubbling up her throat towards her mouth, "that I am trying my damnedest to _not_ puke."

"Should have kept your ass up on that roof with your kid."

Raya's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Had he been watching her as she'd been watching him? _How_? she wondered. He'd been busy dealing with the first of the undead who had stumbled through the dirt cloud. When had he found the time to watch and study her? And more importantly, how had she not known that she was being studied? Jeremy tucked his face into the curve of her shoulder and distracted her from her thoughts.

"Staying on my roof with my son wouldn't stop me from being disgusted by what we are being forced to do in order to survive."

"That so?" He reloaded the bolt. "Well, you best get over that squeamishness if you want to survive."

"What is it that people down here like to say about nobody being perfect?" She cocked her head to the side. "Every dog should have fleas?"

"You gotta do what you gotta do," he grunted. "You gotta grow some balls in order to take care of this damn problem."

"There is no taking care of this damn _problem_ as you refer to it," she drawled. "It's something that is going to continue until the virus either runs its course, or humanity itself is wiped out."

"Well, the line seems pretty clear to me. Zero tolerance for walkers."

"Some of us are still coming to terms with having to put these people down."

"Then what the hell were you thinkin', jumpin' down here in the middle of the shit without anything to defend yourself with?"

"I was thinking that someone needed to get to Jeremy before the horde did."

"And who the hell was gonna get you and the kid outta here?" He demanded as he retrieved his other crossbow bolt from Jeffrey's skull and wiped it on his leg. "Or did you stop to think about that, Mary Lou Retton?"

The answer as to why she felt such a strong connection to this man flashed into her, hotter and brighter than the midday sun: _Jason_. This man was an older, more rough around the edges, and equally as mouthy version of her younger brother.

"Cat got your tongue?" she heard the man — _really should ask his name at some point_ , she thought again - caustically ask. "'Bout time somethin' shut you up."

She sent him a look that would have had Christopher or Rose squirming and mumbling apologies. Him? Not even a twitch. He just hefted that crossbow in one hand and fixed her with a look that spelled out _do_ _something_ in blistering bold letters. Raya harrumphed. And decided to match his snark with her own.

"Trees are just as good for climbing into as they are for back flippin' out of, Tarzan."

She regretted the quip soon as she saw anger suffuse his face.

"And how was your dumb ass plannin' on climbing up into a tree with a kid in your arms?" he shot back, temper simmering in every word. "You plannin' on flyin' up there, Supergirl?"

Raya twitched, jostling Jeremy, who let out a whimper and banded his arms more tightly around her neck. "Sh," she murmured as she resumed stroking his back. "It's okay. I've got you."

She used the time soothing Jeremy to study the simmering man in front of her. _Was it_ _possible_ , she asked herself, _that he knows Kara Zor-el_? _Or Clark_?

"See?" Tarzan groused. "Can't climb up in no tree with the kid latched onto you like an octopus."

"And if you'd quit your bitchin' for five minutes and look up you would see my son is waiting to take Jeremy from me."

His eyes narrowed at her heated tone. "Need to watch that mouth, sunshine."

"Or you'll what, Tarzan?" she tossed back, uncaring of the consequences at that point. "Exactly."

"Got a damned mouth on you," he muttered as he nudged her — _gently_ , she noticed - towards the tree. "That's for sure."

"And as you've so succinctly pointed out," she said as she passed Jeremy up to a silent Christopher. "I am also quite adept at running it."

She felt the breath he released sift through the hair at her nape to chill her damp flesh. "You chirp just to hear yourself make noise."

"Chirpity chirp chirp." She heard him grumbling beneath his breath and sent an easy smile over her shoulder. "Sorry, I can't help it." Her smile stretched into a playful grin. "I have developed a taste for ruffling your fur."

He rolled his eyes before nodding at the tree.

"Go on. Get your ass up there."

"Yes, dear."

"There you go again." She felt his hand brush the small of her back. "Flappin' them gums just 'cause you gotta hear yourself make noise."

Raya shot him a smirk before she reached for a low branch. She was about to hoist herself up when she heard enervated footsteps and garbled groaning behind her. She went to slowly turn, to face that shambling figure, but a sudden burst of automatic fire ripped through the night, reminding Raya of the buzzing of a chainsaw. The walker stiffened as armor-piercing rounds ripped through its skull, and exited the back in a burst of red brain matter. Before the undead creature collapsed at their feet, more bullets tore through its legs and torso, making it dance a macabre waltz that ended when its mangled body could no longer remain upright. Raya looked up in time to see four men she didn't recognize making their way up the street with assault rifles held firmly in their hands.

"Get up in that tree," Tarzan ordered in a hard whisper. "Now."

Raya did as he instructed without issuing another word of complaint or protest. She could see that an all new threat was entering the fracas as easily as he did. _And this threat has military-grade assault weapons_ , she thought as she straddled the branch before holding out a hand.

"Give me your crossbow," she told him. "I'll hold it so you can climb up." Tarzan gave her a look that said he'd sooner have his tongue cut out with a dull and rusty spoon then hand over his weapon. _And that includes me, as well as anyone else, I suspect_ , she thought as she stared into his eyes. A man's weapon was often seen as an extension of himself. _In his case_ , she mused as she watched indecision cross his face, _that crossbow represents that he is a lethal, silent and efficient killer. One who minimizes moves for maximum results_. It was what Bruce had taught her to do whenever she was in a fight. Hit hard, strike fast and get out without being spotted if it was possible.

"C'mon," she pleaded as more gunfire echoed through the streets. "Give me your crossbow and get up here before you get a bullet in a vital part of your anatomy."

"I do-"

"Pride is going to get you killed."

"Can take care of myself."

Raya rolled her eyes towards the sky and prayed for the patience she'd need in order to convince the prickly man to get his ass off the street. _Why do you always send me the most hard-headed of men to deal with_? she silently asked whoever was watching from behind that velvet curtain. _What I ever do to you that you are getting even by sending me so many damn ornery men_?

"Look." Raya glared down at him to let him know she meant business. "You are going to die if you stay down there."

He shrugged. "It's as good a night as any."

"Either you get your ass up here with me," she snapped, her patience and temper finally at an end. "Or I'm jumping back down there." She swung her leg over to show him she was dead serious. "Choice is yours, buddy."

Tarzan mumbled something she couldn't quite make out. Raya assumed — and rightfully so — that it wasn't anything that could be repeated in polite company.

"Well?" She demanded as bullets zinged by them. "What's it gonna be?"

"You a mite too big for them britches you got on."

"Worry about my britches after you get your ass up in this tree."

He gave her a dirty look but handed the weapon up to her. "Yes, Mule."

"Considering I am a woman blessed with seven incredibly mule-headed men," she said right as a thin man with hair a rich and glossy shade of melted chocolate came out from around the side of the Donnelly house. "I have had to develop an iron-will. Had to in order to deal with them."

"Whatever." Raya felt all the tension balled in her belly settle as he grasped the branch and pulled himself up beside her. "Just get a goin'."

Raya was transfixed, however, by the handful of men who swarmed out to flank the dark-haired man. They fanned out with military-like precision, firing shorts bursts from the automatic rifles they carried and mowing down anything undead that moved. Raya didn't recognize any of the newcomers as a part of their small camp. _So where did they come from_? she found herself wondering as she studied them.

"Wipe the rest of these biters out," the leader of the group ordered as more men gathered behind him. "Then have the people gather at the fence."

"Yes, sir," the men replied all as one.

They spread out, eliminating the horde with the same calculated precision of a battalion of soldiers. If not for the fact that they were not in fatigues, she'd have believed them to be lingering remnants of what had once been the country's military forces. It was obvious that this thin, dark-haired man was the leader of this small band of mercenaries. He may have been skinny, but the ripple of muscle beneath his black button down told her that he was a man accustomed to action. And for being followed without question. His face gleamed with a type of fanaticism that Raya knew all too well. She felt a chill as the man swept the square with dark eyes.

Outwardly, she thought he looked like some sort of avenging angel.

Inwardly, Raya suspected the man was really the devil in disguise.

"Who the hell are they?" She heard Tarzan ask in a hushed tone. "And where they come from?"

"I don't know," she replied quietly. "But I have a feeling they mean trouble."

"Mhm," was all he said as they watched that force open fire. "Now get your ass on that roof. And don't give me any more lip."

For once in her life, Raya obeyed without question.


	7. Chapter 7

**Interstate 78**

_The Present..._

The world had taken the game of hunter versus prey and made it its own that night. From Daryl, Raya learned how even a trained crime fighter like herself could become a casualty of this war they were in. _But then_ , she thought as the memory slowly faded away, _this world has never been a good world, a kind world, a safe world_. Not for people like her or Daryl. _For us, this world has always been a cold, cruel, and dangerous one_.

' _So why then are you surprised by the new depths this world has sunk_?' a sly voice asked. The answer to that question, Raya found, completely eluded her. She had no reason for why she found herself shocked at the state of things. Rightly, this was just the world's way of reminding them about how it alone held the power over all living things. _It's Us versus Gaia in a winner take all brawl,_ she realized as they passed a sign advertising they were approaching Athens, Georgia. The voice of her younger brother, Jason, came to her as she stared at the buildings looming on the horizon, his words the last ones he had spoken before everything went to hell: "When ain't it been Us against the World, Kit? It's always gonna be Us versus the World. Even an apocalypse ain't gonna change that."

 _Jason was right_. _It has always been Us versus the World. It will always be Us against the World._ Even as she thought it, that slippery little voice from earlier whispered about how this was so much worse than anything she or the members of her family had faced before. _This goes far beyond any of the plots that Ra's has hatched through the years. Even what Darkseid and Superboy Prime did fails to live up to this_. And that was saying something given how both nearly destroyed the world in their quest to dominate it.

Neither man, even as powerful and terrible as they were, were as powerful as the Earth. They could not morph into a venomous snake that could wait an eternity for that moment to lunge, to strike, to inject its crippling toxin into the bloodstream of its chosen victims. Raya knew firsthand what that venom felt like as it coursed through her veins. It burned as it pumped beneath her skin, melting her bones as it slowly killed her. This disgusting, despicable world fed upon the pain it caused. It delighted in the sound of the screams that were torn from the mouths of the sufferer. It bathed in the tears that poured from swollen eyes.

It didn't give a damn about the suffering it caused or about the unfairness of it all. It simply circled its prey, tying them into a constrictor knot as it waited for that moment when they would collapse to their knees, absolutely broken and begging, pleading for it all to end. Only when there was nothing left with which to fight, when you were left completely defenseless, when you were at your most vulnerable was when it would have its final way with you. Then and only then would it take your mind in its greedy, grasping hands and crush it as if it was nothing more than an aluminum can. Hallucinations would come and go after that, some so powerful you would no longer know what was real and what was imaginary. _Even when the hallucinations are nothing but a figment of your imagination_ , she thought as Rick slowed the Bronco in order to navigate around some debris abandoned in the middle of the road, _the nightmares sure in the hell are_.

They came across another car graveyard a few minutes later. Raya knew when Rick's hands clenched upon the wheel, hard enough that his knuckles snapped, cracked and popped like Rice Krispies, that something he saw in one of the cars made him think of the boy and woman in the photograph he had stuck in the visor. She reached over and set her hand upon his shoulder, telling herself it was what normal people would do when they saw someone hurting as much as he was.

 _Normal_. God, she almost wept at the novelty of it. It was gonna take a helluva lot of time for life to ever return to some semblance of normal. If such a thing was even possible. She was starting to doubt it after everything she had seen and done the last few weeks. With a heavy sigh, she looked over at Rick, saw how his eyes kept straying up to the photograph of his family and knew he was struggling with believing he would actually manage to find them.

"You're going to find your wife and son," she assured him. "It's just going to take time, a whole lot of patience and a small amount of faith on your part."

"Well, I've got plenty of time on my hands now that the world has gone to shit." The smile that curved his lips was as bitter as his tone. "But patience isn't something I have an overabundance of." He slid a look at her. "Would you if your children were the ones out there and facing only God knows what?"

All those moments where she had been in his shoes shot across the dusty windshield. Her entire life was one built upon some natural disaster, some psychopath or some other type of calamity trying to separate her from the members of her family.

"Rick, I've torn this planet apart in order to find and protect my family." It wasn't said arrogantly. Facts were facts and she was simply telling them to him. "I'd work with the damned devil if it was the only way to make sure any member of my family was safe."

Only silently did she quantify the devil as a pasty-faced freak in a cheap merino suit dyed a gaudy shade of purple, a white silk shirt and with a high-pitched laugh that echoed like church bells. A hulled out warehouse, its charred frame still smoldering appeared on the road in front of the Bronco. Plumes of smoke lazily reached for the sky, a faded and yellowed banner with the date: _04/27/1993_ , held between their vaporous fingers. It was the date of the event that ultimately changed her family, forever. What happened to Jason at the hands of the Joker inside that Ethiopian warehouse taught them about how far some men were willing to go.

"I think working with the devil is a bit extreme, don't you?"

"Rick, I have done whatever was necessary to protect my family from those meaning to harm them."

 _Like breaking Rose's father out of prison so he could help me stop the Scarecrow_ , she thought. Wisely, she kept that detail to herself.

"You've broken the law?" Suspicion darkened Rick's tone for a moment, shimmered upon his face. "Murdered people?"

"I have skirted the law, yes," she admitted without shame or regret. "And I have used it for my own benefit when there was a need for me to do so." A voice in her head that spoke in the same gravelly tone Bruce used as his alter-ego ordered her to be silent. Raya opted to ignore it. "However, I have not, nor will I ever kill in either cold blood or for personal gain. In fact." She rolled down her window. "Up until the rise of the undead made it necessary for me to do so, I have never killed any living - or recently alive - thing."

"Not even when you wore the badge?"

"No." A soft puff of wind blew in through the window and brought the smell of ozone, rain, and rotting flesh. She swallowed back the bile that foamed into her mouth as she rolled the window back up. "I did my best to never use my gun in the line of duty. And the times when I did have to use it, I always used rubber bullets and aimed for non-lethal areas of the body."

"Sometimes we don't have any choice but to kill the bad guys."

"I didn't grow up in a city where the lines of who was the good guy and who was the bad guy were always clear, Rick." She kept her tone neutrally, carefully blank. "In Gotham, the bad guys could be the ones carrying the badges and the good guys those trying to stop them."

"Sounds like there was a lotta corruption in your police department."

"There was." Her voice throbbed with every dark emotion careening around inside her at that moment. "The police could be worse than the actual bad guys because they had the law on their side."

"And yet, you're a cop."

" _Was_ a cop," she corrected with a faint smile. "I _was_ a cop. Stopped wearing a badge when I got pregnant with Christopher."

 _Same as I_ was _a crime fighter_ , she added silently. She left out that particular detail, though. Rick seemed willing to accept a lot. Her once being a vigilante that was code named as the Fenix? She had a sneaky feeling he might balk at that.

"Once a cop," he retorted playfully. "Always a cop."

"Mm. I don't suggest you tell my fathers that if you ever end up meeting them," she lightly teased back. "They definitely won't appreciate hearing it."

"And why's that?"

"Well, I might have entered the civil service field against both of their wishes." She sent him a sheepish smile. "And they might not have ever really forgiven me for it."

"They didn't approve of you becoming a cop?" One eyebrow shot up. "Or didn't want you to become one?"

"Both."

"I imagine they didn't react well when you told them about joining the academy then."

"No, they didn't react well at all. Least of all Bruce." She made a face as she recalled just how well the announcement of her intentions had gone over with the Wayne Patriarch. "I have heard Bruce yell plenty of times," she said as a rueful smile tugged at her lips. "But never that loud. And never," she added with a small shudder, "directly at _me_."

"Why were they so upset about you becoming a police officer?" He paused at an intersection. Not that there was any need to stop. There wasn't any traffic to speak of. Old habits, though, died hard. He glanced at her before resuming driving. "Wasn't being a cop good enough for them?"

"Oh, they were proud as anything that I wanted to dedicate my life and skills to the civil service field."

"Then what was the problem?"

"Daddy One didn't want either of his girls following in his footsteps because he knew how dangerous being an officer was, especially in a city like Gotham where triads, drug cartels, and the Mafia tend to run amuck."

"And Daddy Two?"

There was a speckle of humor in his tone that had an answering one crop up in her own when she replied.

"Well." Her lips trembled, curved. "Daddy Two tends to be a tad bit overprotective and just didn't want me entering a profession where I'd be shot at on a regular basis."

Again, it was all the truth. James Gordon and Bruce Wayne had both been ridiculously pleased about her wanting to serve and protect the city of Gotham as an officer by day, and a crimefighter by night. However, they had also been unilaterally adamant in their stance about her not entering the academy and actually becoming a police officer.

"Well, I can empathize with them about not wanting to see you end up being shot." He glanced down at his chest and then over at her, his lips creeping up at the corners. "It hurts."

"Oh, I know it does."

"Been shot I'm taking it?"

She pointed to her right side. "A gift on my year anniversary from a baboon high on meth."

"What a nice anniversary present." With a faint grimace, he guided the vehicle around an overturned service vehicle. "I'm guessing that marked the end of your career as a police officer?"

"As a police officer who walked a beat, yes. I wasn't completely muscled out of the department, though. Much," she stated with a small hiss as she stretched sore and stiff muscles, "to the chagrin of my cousin, best friend, and younger brother."

"Lemme guess," he said in a light tone. "You got reassigned to the traffic division?" She flicked the back of his ear with a finger. He sent her a teasing smile. "No? The records room then? Evidence lock-up?"

"Oh, Rick." Citric acid was sweeter than her tone. "My punishment was far, far worse than that."

Rick knew of only one job that could be even worse than traffic division.

"Don't tell me they busted you down to duty officer of the day."

"Duty officer for an unspecified amount of time, actually," she clarified with a nod. "And as I was assigned to Daddy One's own precinct, there was absolutely no way of me conning my way out of the job."

As police jobs went, duty officer of the day was the easiest and safest one. All she'd have been required to do for the entirety of her eight to twelve-hour shift was direct calls to whoever they needed to go. It was, quite simply, the most boring of police jobs.

"Shouldn't have got yourself shot."

She fixed him with a baleful look. "Yanno, as a man who has been shot in the line of duty, you should be commiserating with me about the unfairness of the situation, not laughing at me about it."

"Sorry," he replied in a tone that conveyed how not sorry he actually was.

She harrumphed. "You are so not sorry."

"Nope, I'm not." He grinned at her playful growl. "Look, you got off easy in my opinion." When she merely arched a brow at that, he said, "If I was the one in charge? I'd have busted you down to meter maid."

"Yeah, about that..." she settled back in her seat with her arms folded across her chest. "That is exactly what they threatened to do until we had a series of assaults upon meter maids. Then they decided that duty officer was the best place for me to go until I could finish training for reassignment to the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

"Got double-teamed by both fathers, huh?"

"I think those two have whittled the daddy-double team act down to an art."

"Our first duty as parents is to protect our kids from whatever could hurt them."

"Yeah." She glanced back at her sleeping children. "I know."

He flashed her a small smile before turning left. "Then quit complaining."

She turned an amused look upon him. "Your wife and son don't stand a chance against you, do they?"

A shadow passed momentarily over Rick's face. "My wife would tell you that I've talked more with you in the last few hours than I have to her in the last year of our marriage."

For a cop, the silence was their way of keeping the horrors they witnessed while on the job from coming home with them. It was their way of protecting their family from the ugly reality they saw every time they walked out the door. Many marriages ended in divorce because a spouse just couldn't take the silence, or the long hours of uncertainty, or the whispers of fraternization, or any of the other methods many officers used in order to cope with the stress. Her uncle's own first marriage was a prime example of that.

"It's easier to talk with someone who understands the job and knows all about the stuff that goes along with it than it is to someone who has never seen the truth or experienced it for themselves."

"You talk from experience."

It wasn't a question and Raya knew she didn't have to answer, but she did so anyway.

"I do speak from experience." She smoothed an errant curl back behind her ear. "My uncle's first marriage didn't survive because of a combination of factors: silence and his never being home, two of the biggest."

"I just..." His fingers flexed upon the steering wheel. "I just wish I knew _why_ she was pissed at me."

Raya rested her hand on his shoulder. "Why she was pissed at you is unimportant now."

"Is it?" Rick looked down the road that seemed to stretch on forever. "Is it really?"

Raya studied his face for a moment. _He looked dramatic_ , she thought. The quintessential description of the tragic hero. Dark and broody. Full of anger and turmoil. He reminded her so much of Conner at that moment that her heart quivered. And because he did remind her of him, she decided to comfort him in the same way she would have once comforted her moody love.

"You're being given a chance to start over, Rick." She spoke gently. And all the more effective because of it. "You get to make all those wrongs of the last few months right."

"Maybe."

The way he said it, that small, verbal explosion triggered memories of similar conversations she had with Conner. How well she remembered that dark passion, that echo of raw vulnerability and the slight hint of uncertainty that lurked beneath his outward calm. It had drawn her to Conner even as her mind had screamed at her that she needed to stay as far away from him as she could. Right or wrong, though, she had fallen in love with him. And had a beautiful son and a deep well of memories — mostly good — to show for it.

"Rick, you said earlier how a parent's first priority is to protect their child, to ensure their health and well-being. Well," she said smartly, "your boy needs you to do that for him. He needs you and your wife to set aside all your drama and come together to do what's best for him. He is who is most important."

She saw his eyes flick up to the visor. Then he glanced over at her, a rueful grin tugging at his lips. "Can't do any of that if I can't find them."

"I guarantee you're gonna find them."

"How?" One side of his mouth curled. "Just how do you guarantee that I will find them? Hm?"

"We're gonna help you find them, that's how."

"No-" he protested, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Yes." She smiled to soften the severity of her tone. "We are going to help you find your wife and son. And that," she added with a slight narrowing of her eyes, "is final."

"Your family doesn't stand a chance against you," he parroted her words from earlier back at her. "Do they?"

"Most of my family has learned it is just easier to let me have my way."

"Not all of them adhere to that particular belief?"

"Well, my second parent routinely argues with me about whatever I've set my mind upon."

"Do you hear the phrase pig-headed a lot?"

"Me? Pig-headed?" Her lips trembled. "Never!"

He snorted a laugh. "I have a feeling you're as stubborn as a mule."

"Well," she snickered, "I do hear that I am like Bruce a lot…"

"He's stubborn as a mule, too?"

"I was going to say as inflexible as a mountain." She flashed him a cheeky grin. "But that works."

Rick chuckled as he shook his head. "You're a helluva woman, Dr. Kean. You know that?"

His simple praise brought a rush of some much-needed warmth. "Can I get that in writing?"

"Your family doesn't think you're an amazing woman?" One eyebrow arched. "I definitely don't believe that."

"My family tends to think I'm an amazing pain in the ass."

He laughed, the throaty and deep kind instead of that forced and rusty-sounding one.

"I am going to refrain from commenting."

"Ah, evidence of a wise man right there."

"No, just a man who has wisely learned when to keep his mouth shut."


	8. Chapter 8

**Gotham, Park Row**

The Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Park. A city monument to two of Gotham's most beloved citizens. Once upon a time, this park had been a playground complete with swing sets, jungle gyms, and slides, fountains and flowering pathways, picnic tables and grassy knolls. There had even been an area set aside in order for the local youth to play team sports like baseball, football and soccer. For over three decades now it had been the place where families spent glorious weekends together doing all the things that normal families liked doing together.

Even in the wake of the plague sweeping the globe, the park still tended to attract the dregs, skells and other bottom-feeders who lived in Gotham's still rampant criminal underbelly. Movement at the edge of the trees told him the handful of infected he had spotted upon entering the parks grounds had not managed to free themselves from the trap he set. _Excellent_ , he thought as he crossed the roof and scanned the rest of the park. He knew he could have chosen to take his first solo patrol in Crime Alley, Gotham's East End or anywhere in the Bowery. He could have lurked on the rooftops of the Diamond District or caroused the area once known as Amusement Mile. He'd chosen to come here, though, to the park that had been named for his grandparents. In a perverse way, it seemed like the most fitting place for Robin to finally stretch his wings.

He was so ready for this.

He had been ready for months, but Father always said no because he feared Robin would get hurt or killed if Batman wasn't nearby to rescue him. As if he was as foolish as the others who had worn this suit before him. He was not the Robin that any of his predecessors were. He was leaps and bounds ahead of them skill-wise. He was a trained assassin, the finest in all of the League of Assassins, in fact. He could easily handle whatever the scum of this city could throw at him. The undead was no match for him. He didn't need Father there to hold his hand. He didn't need Batman to tell him what to do. He already knew what he needed to do and had set out this evening to prove it.

He had started his first solo patrol just shortly before ten in the evening. It was the perfect time for hunting. The street punks, muggers, murderers, rapists and special scum that continued to prey upon Gotham preferred the cool silence and privacy of the shadows that abounded. And he would prey upon them, utilizing those very quiet coves to his personal advantage. He was absolutely certain the scum would be out tonight looking for new victims. They would be bored and in need of a bit of sport. They'd be wanting some fresh blood to spill and mayhem to cause. Gotham's predators were one thing after all: absolutely predictable. And he was here to use their predictably against them. Nothing could see him as he took inventory of his environment.

Nothing ever saw him.

Not until it was too late.

His gaze fell upon two middle-aged thugs as they jumped the fence by the arboretum and strolled their way along the stone path. Each of them looked as if they had just gotten released from one of what was probably a hundred stints in Blackgate Penitentiary. They finally stopped beneath an overhang of trees at the edge of the baseball field, chain-smoking Morley cigarettes and guzzling whatever booze they had managed to find from brown paper bags. Both of the men wore dirty and stained orange prison garb beneath matching black bomber jackets. Each had identical faux-hawks- one with the tips dyed a neon shade of green- gold hoops in their ears and wore clown makeup in order to mask their identities. Not that it mattered to him who they were. Both of them had that hollow-eyed predatory look that said they were up to no good, that they were too broken to be redeemed, and didn't care about anything other than satisfying their own wants and needs.

They would be easy enough for him to apprehend.

A glimpse of movement to his right caused him to swing his head around in time to see a seedy-looking man taking a seat on a park bench. The man kept glancing at the watch he wore on his left wrist, his face ticking with what could be nerves or agitation; he couldn't rightly tell which. The man was obviously waiting for someone who was showing up to their planned rendezvous a bit later than he had anticipated. After several minutes, another figure casually joined the man, as if they were little more than strangers who just happened to be in the same place, at the same time, and on the same night.

The dark brown overcoat the second figure wore seemed to be about ten sizes too big for their frame and their matching fedora hid the majority of their face from his view. After conversing in low voices that his auditory filters couldn't pick up, they exchanged something in an envelope made from leather tanned the color of fresh butter. The disheveled man waited for ten heartbeats before he casually got to his feet and followed the park's winding trails back to the vacant and dark city streets that awaited him.

From his place in the shadows, he made a quick assessment: the man was not a junkie, that wasn't a drug deal, the second figure was definitely a female, she was not a prostitute, and there was something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite place his finger upon what. He was instantly wary. There was something decidedly wrong about this entire situation. The woman shouldn't be in the park, not with the two painted baboons lurking by the trees. Even if she had a weapon concealed in one of her overcoat's many pockets, it wouldn't be enough to stop the hulking behemoths if they chose to attack.

Not that he would allow them to attack her, of course.

He uncoiled from his crouched position in one fluid movement, his senses attuned to every ambient sound, scent, or movement around him. A slight breeze stirred the leaves littering the ground, snuck beneath his cape in order to billow it behind him like wings and ran its fingers through the short hairs that crowned his head. He ignored all of it as he dropped to the ground on silent feet, watching the two monkeys as they traded insults with each other. He crouched in the shadows at the edge of the trees, his pulse racing, adrenaline filling his bloodstream, and priming his nerves for action. He focused his whole attention on the possibility of a hunt. He hungered for it in much the same way a starving man did a hunk of moldy bread. He needed to feel the thrill of the chase, to have that spurt of excitement warming his muscles and chasing away the lethargy that his imposed inactivity had cast upon him.

Mostly, he just wanted to feel _alive_.

In the days following the initial outbreak, Father had curtailed all of their nightly patrols. He had claimed it was because there was little Batman and Robin could do to help the people trying to flee the reanimated corpses that had belonged to their friends and loved ones.

"We can best serve Gotham by helping to establish refugee centers and safe zones for people to go to and making sure that they adequate food and water," his father had said when he demanded an explanation. "People don't need a dramatic example to shake them out of their apathy. Nor do they need Batman and Robin to swoop in and rescue them. They need the help of people they can see, people who they know they can trust and count upon to help them get through this ordeal. I can't give that to them dressed as Batman."

At the time, it had made sense. There was a limitation to what even Batman and Robin could do. Fighting the undead was vastly different from fighting the monkey twins. All the martial arts training in the world was useless against a body that did not recognize pain or that it was, essentially, dead. The only types of weapons that—in his opinion- were useful against a band of undead were either a gun or sword. However, Father had expressly forbidden him from killing anything, no matter what the circumstances, or the situation that he found himself. It was a conversation they had had again that evening, in fact.

...

**Wayne Manor**

_An hour before..._

"But it would be merciful to kill them," he told his father as they entered the huge caverns below Wayne Manor. "It would put these infected out of their misery and stop them from making more. Isn't that what we want?"

"Giving these people death, Damian," Bruce Wayne had replied in a voice he had never heard him use before. It was lacking its usual warmth and sparkle. A glance at his father's face revealed a bleakness he'd never seen before. Those eyes, usually burning with intensity, were somber as they turned down to his. "While itself an act of mercy, it is not the act of the merciful."

A frown creased Damian's brow as he stared at his father. A glance at Pennyworth revealed nothing, but for the usual calm expression that the butler always wore. Something was afoot and the younger Wayne planned to find out what it was.

"Grandfather would say that the merciful are the ones who act with mercy."

"Ra's is wrong," Father calmly said. "The merciful are those who find other means to handle a situation like this."

"Death is kinder than the existence that these people are being forced to live," he insisted to his father's obvious vexation. "Not," he added with a small sniff, "that what they are living is something that we can even classify as life."

Bruce closed his eyes, more a long blink than anything else. Only he would dare to question his father at a time like this. Only he could.

"Killing them breaks the one golden rule that all of us swore to uphold when we chose to don our masks, Damian."

"These things are monsters, Father." Damian folded his arms across his chest and stared at the man who was both his parent and his partner. "The golden rule should not apply to them. It can't apply to them."

"Killing these people would make _you_ a monster." Bruce set a large hand upon his shoulder. "Remember, son, that if you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world does not change."

Damian made a low _ffff_ sound. "Kafka would say that while ' _evil can seduce a man, it cannot become the man_."'

"And Margaret Mead would reply that while ' _it may be necessary temporarily to accept a lesser evil_ ,"' his father rumbled. '" _One must never label a necessary evil as good_.'"

"Sometimes it takes a necessary evil to bring about a necessary good."

"Damian." Bruce crouched so he could look him in the eyes. "Do you know why I have never killed the Joker?"

Damian tutted before grumbling, "You say it is because it would make you no better than him."

"No," Bruce spoke gently now and all the more effective for it. "It's because I know how easy it would be for me to kill the Joker."

"We are not talking about the Joker." He cocked his head to the side, calmly studying his father's face. "We are talking about the undead. They are a vastly different sort of monster from the Joker."

"Just because we are in the middle of an apocalypse does not mean that we let go of the ideals that we have upheld for so long," Bruce stated with more conviction than he felt. "These people are sick with some sort of virus that has caused them to revert to their most basic, primal instincts. Killing them would not only be wrong morally, but it would make us no better than those criminals that we will continue to bring to justice no matter the state of the world."

...

Father's argument had made sense when he first heard it. However, the more he had thought about it, the less he found himself agreeing. Without knowing just how this virus had come into existence, what it even was organically derived from, or if there was even the possibility of a cure, they were fighting what essentially was a losing battle. His grandfather, the great Ra's al Ghul would say that they needed to cleanse and purify the Earth by ridding it of the malignant tumor infecting it. Far as he was concerned, his grandfather was right. Killing the infected people was the only means they had of stopping whatever had caused this deadly outbreak from getting even more out of control than it already was.

Suddenly, one of the thugs barked a laugh, startling the young hero from his wayward thoughts. He silently cursed himself for becoming so engrossed in his thoughts at what was a crucial moment. _Weak. Pathetic_. He had to focus or else he'd fail to apprehend these two men! He looked and saw that the two men had spotted the woman and were slowly making their way along the path towards where she still calmly sat, seemingly unaware of the danger she had placed herself. His teeth gnashed together as he reached for the bo-staff clipped to his utility belt.

He bided his time, as patiently as he could, and waited for them to pass where he crouched. The men drew close enough that he could see the white of their teeth as they grinned like hyenas, their eyes shining with dark intentions that were fueled by the copious amounts of alcohol they had recently consumed. He waited until they passed before he struck, without warning, without sound, without mercy. He swept the feet out from under the first of the two thugs. The goon let out an "ompf!" as he was knocked down to the ground. He leaped nimbly to his feet and turned to the second goon, who jumped backward, his face registering fear before sliding into a gruesome mask of rage and hunger.

"Well, if it ain't da little Robin," he sneered. "Ain't it past your bedtime?"

" _Tt_ ," Robin gritted as he glared at the man. "And here I was thinking something intelligent just may have crawled out of the sewers for a change."

"How's about we bust you in that smart mouth, kid?"

Robin let his lips curl. "How about I break your face?"

The thug snarled as he tried to grab Robin around the legs, but a twist to the right allowed him to crack the buffoon in the back of the head with his bo-staff. The blow sent the man sprawling face down on the ground, what little sense he had knocked out of him. The second dipped into his jacket, reaching for what Robin assumed must be a gun, but a hard blow with the staff to his solar plexus sent the man backward, the wind knocked out of him. He returned the weapon to its place on his utility belt before he walked forward to zip-tie the thugs' wrists together. He managed to take two steps forward when he felt something pierce his arm and neck.

"What the…?"

He didn't feel a wound of any kind, but when he laid his hand on his arm, his fingers came back sticky with blood and what appeared to be a small, sharp object. He frowned as he held the thing up in order to see it better. The pale light from the moon showed him that the projectile was no bigger than a needle, was tipped with a razor sharp point, and was light as a feather. Perfect for using as a tranquilizer dart. _But for who_ , he found himself wondering as lethargy reached up to slowly engulf him. He pushed back against the fog trying to overwhelm him but knew he was losing the battle when his vision grayed at the edges. Damian knew he had been set up. He had gotten himself caught in what was a cleverly laid trap. The two thugs had been nothing but decoys meant to distract him, to keep him occupied, to prevent him from becoming aware of another predator who had been waiting for him to make his move. He had nowhere to run, to hide. Not even Batman could save him at this point. _Stupid, foolish_! It was mistakes like these that caused failure.

It annoyed the living hell out of him, but he knew he was going to have to reach out to someone, to let them know what happened, to tell them about which of their family's innumerable enemies he had allowed himself to fall into the hands of. The question, though was _who_? Todd, Kean, and Grayson had not managed to return to Gotham. The other members of the Titans were scattered all across the north-eastern seaboard, not that they'd have been of any use to him anyway. Mother would certainly not come to his aide. She had said as much after their last confrontation.

_Will have to be Drake_ , he decided after a moment's further debate. Just the fact that he had to call upon Red Robin galled him. However, he was the best hope that Damian had for rescue. The older hero would gleefully scold him for falling for such an obvious ploy, but he would not add insult to his ruffled feathers by curtly reminding him about this being why he had not been ready for solo patrols. However, Robin found that his lips would not obey his request to form the words his mind was saying. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized that the fast-acting tranquilizer was invading his system much faster than he had calculated. Through the swirling mist, he saw a figure sashaying towards him, their boots mismatched shades of purple and hot pink. _What the_... he thought as he tried to bear down, shove the effects off. _Why would_ she _be laying a trap for me_?

"Don't youse know it ain't safe for little birds to be out by themselves?" Those candy apple red lips stretched into a small smile as Harley Quinn bent over him. "Not with the whole damn city being overrun by the undead."

"Quinn." It absolutely horrified him how slurred that one simple word sounded. "When Batman finds out about this..."

"Hush, little Robin," Harley replied in a breathy voice. "We don't gots time ta get into this."

"Why _are_ you doing this?" He demanded. "What's your motive?"

"I made a promise ta someone," was her soft reply. "And I intend ta keep it."

Alarm shot through Robin at hearing those words. _She can only mean the Joker_ , he thought as he resumed trying to power out of the drug trying to pull him beneath its spell. Before he could fully shake off the effects, Harley delivered a second dose of the tranquilizer with a small, pained look upon her garishly painted face. Robin puzzled over that as he started to slide towards the ground. Nothing, this time, was going to stop his fall. He was unconscious long before his body landed in the moist, earthy arms waiting to catch him.

"C'mon, idiots," Harley barked at the still groggy thugs. "Let's get the little birdie loaded inta the van and get the hell outta here before any of those undead things show up."

"Yes, Miss Quinn," the goons replied, bending to do as she ordered without question or objection.


	9. Chapter 9

**Blüdhaven**

"Oblivious," a heavyset man announced to the crowd gathered around him. "That's what the damned things out there are. Oblivious."

"They're not simply _oblivious_ ," argued the silver-haired woman standing beside him. "They've disassociated."

"Disassociated?" A thin, bespectacled man murmured as he turned to look out at the creatures shuffling along the street. "As in they are experiencing a complete separation from reality? One that," he added as his brow lowered over the bridge of his nose, "could be causing them to experience a dissociative fugue state that is altering their perception of consciousness?"

"Precisely." The woman shuddered as a boy in a dingy hospital gown, half his shoulder missing, slammed up against the window, whining inarticulately as he banged nerveless fingers against the glass. "Some of these people might still come out of this catatonic state they're in." When the portly man merely scoffed, she tossed a scathing look at him. "Not all of them were affected by the sickness in the same way. There is every chance that a small portion of them will wake up once their bodies have fought off the infection."

"Nah, they's ain't ever gonna wake up from this shit," a man in ripped and faded jeans and a once white t-shirt spoke up as he stuck bottles of water into a canvas pack. "Brains done burnt up in the fever. They's ain't got no minds left in which to wake up with."

"My oldest son and husband are two of those infected by that fever, you jackass." The reply came from a woman with two young children huddled against her. Bracelets jingled as she gathered the strands of her daughter's long ash-blonde hair into a ponytail. "I can assure you neither one of them are _mindless_. Least of all my John. He is merely… _unconscious_."

"Lady, that old man's right." The speaker, a dark-haired man in a brown bombers jacket and black bodysuit with a strange red emblem emblazoned across the chest, spoke from behind one of the check-stands he was currently rummaging through. Anything that could be of use against the mass outside he set on the counter. "Them things ain't ever gonna wake up from this unconscious state they're in," he added when he was through stacking everything he found on the conveyor belt. "They can't."

"Oh?" The woman with the children turned to glower at the man. "And why is that?"

"'Cause they ain't unconscious or in some damned fugue state." He shot a look at her as he moved to the next check stand. "That's why."

"Is that so?" She all but sneered at him. "Well, what are they then, Mr. Know-It-All?"

"They're undead." His tone could have frozen an ice cube. "That's what."

Excited mutterings and nervous stammers all greeted his statement. Something told the man that this might have been one of those times where he should have employed a little more tact. _Alfie would have a fit if'n he'd been here ta hear that_ , he mused as he dumped a drawer out and began sifting through the contents. However, slowly peeling a Band-Aid off didn't make the pain any less in Jason Todd's long-standing opinion.

Facts were facts. He just told things as they needed to be. _Undead_ was exactly what the handful of people stumbling, crawling, shuffling along outside the small grocery market were. They weren't alive. They weren't even something that could be classified as somewhere between either mostly living or not quite dead. _Sure_ , he thought as he dumped out another drawer on the conveyor belt, _I could make it easy on these people and call 'em the infected. Or I_ _could call 'em what the people on the news been calling 'em:_ _geeks, biters, roamers, floaters, creepers_ , and his personal favorite: _walkers_.

If there was one thing his years training with Bruce Wayne and Ducra had taught him, though, it was that the simplest answers were not always the most accurate. Sure, the beings staring in at him and the other survivors with hungry expressions twisting their faces were something animalistic in nature. The whites of their eyes had now gone that jaundiced shade of yellowed, their skin - what little remained of it - was sallow and their smell was rank enough to kill the weeds sticking up through the cracks in the pavement. It wasn't like he had to think hard about what they would do if they managed to get inside.

Being beat with a crowbar by the Joker was a much kinder death than he and the others would get if the undead broke down the door. However, looks could be deceiving. What looked like an animal, acted like a brainless bag of bones, and appeared to be a walking dead body could really be a calculated manipulation of perception. _Scarecrow, Strange or Hatter_ , he decided as one of the undead banged on the door. Any of those three were more than capable of creating a toxin that would cause whoever got a dose to believe that people had turned into these so-called _walkers_.

_Really hopin' the old man has not only figured out this shit but that he knows how ta fix it,_ he thought while investigating the contents of a toolbox he found stuck behind some plastic bags. Only silently did Jason add a fervent wish about Bruce fixing things before what remained of the world's population found itself as droolin', stinkin', mindless sacks of rottin' meat. In the twenty seconds, it took him to sift through an array of screwdrivers, wrenches, and pliers, more of the undead gathered outside the storefront. The dissonant atonal articulations that came from deep within their throats slid along his already frayed nerve endings and unraveled them further.

Even though it was the only proof that these things were once walking, talking, thinking, feeling, fully rational and functioning human beings, he wished they'd shut up. _Ain't like any of the undead gives a shit about things like annoying sounds,_ he thought as he stuck some tools in a pants pocket. What people called them, thought of them, described them as made no difference to them. The undead had long since forgotten about independence, confidence, and intelligence. Autonomy, as well as anything else remotely resembling higher-ordered thought processes, left the building along with Elvis.

Things like who their friends and family were, where they used to live or worked had all become as lost to the undead as a ship in the Dead Sea. They didn't have any idea about who they were, what they were in their before lives, where they were from, or what year they'd even been born in. Everything they were, that they might have been, and that they might have become had all been erased by whatever the fuck was going on.

_Ain't like any of 'em care about how he or she is supposed ta be dead_ , he thought as he gathered the items he found and made his way through the throng of people to the doors at the back of the store.

"Wh-where ya goin', Mister?" a girl who didn't look to be older than nine or ten asked as he brushed past her and her mother _. "_ Y-ya ain't leavin' us, ar-are ya _?"_

Jason looked down into eyes as green as the manicured lawns of Wayne Manor. _The kid is the same age as Rosie_ , he thought with a pang. His worry for his niece and nephew and the other members of his family was what had driven him to leave the safety of the All-Caste and return home to Gotham. _Ain't leavin' them ta fight this shit alone._

"Nah," he told the girl as he crouched down to eye-level. "I'm gonna clear us a path so we can all get the hell outta here."

"Ya are?" At his nod, her eyes went wide as silver dollars. "Bu-but ain't youse afraid of th-the infected?"

"Nah," he lied smoothly. "I ain't. Know why?"

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm a superhero."

_Well, I'm kinda a superhero_ , he amended silently. _Can't really classify the guy willin' ta plug the bad guy as totally bein' the good guy_.

"Really?" The ends of his lips curled at her tiny gasp. "Ya are?"

"Mhm." He nodded. "I work for Batman." He dropped his voice than to a conspiratorial whisper. "And ya ain't ever seen _him_ afraid, have ya?"

She shook her head. "N-no."

"Then we won't be afraid, will we?"

"N-no." She quickly shook her head. "But I don't wanna get eaten by the monsters."

"I won't let anythin' happen to ya, kid." He took a minute he didn't have to comfort her. "I promise. Ya, believe me, don'cha?"

"Yes," she automatically replied. "I believe youse."

"'Kay then," he said as he stood. "Now wait here with your mom until I get back, all right?"

"All right."

Jason moved to the exit and slowly lifted the board used to barricade the door shut. The air in the alleyway reeked of rank sewer water, rotting garbage and decomposing flesh. Every nerve in Jason's body tightened in anticipation. He slid out into the moist shadows, eyes sweeping everywhere and ears attuned for even the minimalist of sounds. He hadn't made it far when he spotted a tall, pasty-faced fellow in a dirty pair of sweats. Half of his chest cavity was exposed, the fibers and muscles dripping from the hole like fresh worms. Another creature appeared behind him, this of a woman with a gaping divot for a mouth, half her throat missing, and eyes fixed and glazed over. The two of them bustled along with what had become the trademark gait of the undead, jaws clacking, lips peeled back from their blackened teeth like snarling hyenas.

Neither paid him any mind, not with their intent so fully focused on gaining access to the building. Theirs was an existence of complete unawareness. Not that they knew, that, of course. The only thing these two knew with any certainty was hunger. Even now the pangs twisted what remained of their intestines into bowline knots. The want of fresh meat - it could be as tough as shoe leather, or melt in their mouths like butter, it no longer mattered - consumed every thought, drove every step and tingled along what few synapses were firing. The man groaned with his need for sustenance, the auditorial impression rumbling up from deep within his empty soul to fill the void left when the world lost all sound the moment the waking death claimed it.

Jason found himself wondering if they could hear each other echoing their want, need, demand for sustenance. He doubted any of them realized, much less cared about there being others like them in the world. This cold, cruel and despicable world that without their consent or knowledge, injected each and every one of them with something that it knew had no cure. This sick, shallow and sadistic world that was not yet done torturing them, taunting them or tricking them into acting like their own versions of Chucky. Oh, no, the undead were blissfully incognizant that this callous, conniving, contemptible world was far from done with either them, those who had become like them, and those who were doing their damnedest to avoid becoming one of them.

_Sorry, Bruce_ , Jason said silently as he reached for one of his handguns, _but I can't play by your antiquated set of rules._ With nausea rolling like a greasy wave in his belly, he took aim at the man. _This is all I can do for 'em_. _At least until ya tell me there's a better way_. With that thought heavy upon his heart, his finger tightened upon the trigger. Two pulls later and Mr. and Mrs. Rotting Corpses joined the garbage piled up against the side of the building.

…

**Gotham, Bleake Island**

The rooftop of police headquarters had become James "Jim" Gordon's personal refuge many, many years ago. It was the one place he had found that he could go to get away from the non-stop phone calls, emails, faxes, emergency meetings, and general bureaucratic bullshit that came with his job. He liked thinking of the roof as his version of the Batcave. He could come out here to catch a breath of air, to rant and rave over this and that, or think about nothing whatsoever. He felt he did his very best detective work out here. He could concentrate on the really tough cases that tended to come his way and did not need to worry about being interrupted by any one of the hundreds of men and women who were under his supervision.

It was also on the roof of a police building where his and Batman's lives became irreversibly intertwined. Many clandestine meetings between him and Gotham's silent guardian had taken place since that Christmas Eve. He and Batman frequently stood out here, formulating plans, discussing options or just exchanging crucial information. Here was where they tried to figure out how they could stop Gotham's criminal elite from overrunning their beloved city. And here was the spot where the two would frequently meet in order to discuss the one other thing that they shared in common: their children.

_How often did we just end up talking about something stupid that one of our kids had said or done_? He mused, the ghost of a smile appearing for the briefest second. And how often had they met in order to discuss how to keep one of those children safe from the vermin that even now threatened them? _Can we even protect them from this_? He silently wondered. _Or are we fooling ourselves into believing there is any hope of surviving what the hell is going on_?

Gordon shifted the files he held in his hands before stepping over to the searchlight a few feet away from him. He ran a hand over the emblem fused to the steel casing, taking comfort in the feel of the metal against his palm. That iron lens had projected an ominous bat-winged shape onto the night sky for over two decades now. It was a signal to the people of Gotham that they were safe, that there was a guardian watching over them, and that assured them the bad guys were not going to win. Not so long as _he_ was around to protect them.

"Switch it on, Commissioner," a familiar voice suggested. "Just don't be surprised if he doesn't answer the call at the moment."

"I'm hoping the reason he's not here is because he's hard at work figuring out how to fix this mess."

"He's meeting with Superman and Green Arrow to discuss what he suspects is the cause of this situation."

Hearing that both Green Arrow and Superman were in Gotham pleased Gordon. It meant that his city, as well as her people, was being protected by two more than capable hands.

"I'm surprised you're here." He turned towards the young man perched in the shadows. "I thought you headed to Georgia to retrieve Raya and the kids days ago."

Red Robin's teeth flashed momentarily.

"Are you giving me permission to defy Batman's orders about remaining here in Gotham until the worst of this storm passes?"

Gordon merely grunted a laugh.

"You don't need my permission to ignore your mentor's orders, son." He flicked a look at the younger man that had him squirming in his boots. "You've been picking and choosing what commands of his to obey and which to ignore on your own for years."

"Yeah, well." A shadow passed over the younger man's face before Red Robin looked away. Years of being a father told Gordon something was on his mind. Gordon hid a smile and waited patiently, knowing he would get to the heart of the problem in his own good time. "He said he would fire me if I ignore this particular set of orders."

"Batman has threatened to fire you and your partners before if you ignored his orders," Gordon pointed out in a no-nonsense tone. "What makes, this time, any different?"

"This time," Red Robin began but paused in order to gather his thoughts. "It is different because of everything currently going on in the world," he finally admitted with a slight grimace. "Batman does not want us leaving Gotham because of how unstable the world is at the present moment."

"I can understand how he feels." Silently, Gordon told himself that he could understand how Batman felt even while disagreeing with him about his choice of keeping Red Robin grounded here in Gotham. "It's bad everywhere. Nowhere is safe from whatever this is."

"I know it is, Commissioner." Red Robin gave a slight nod of his cowled head. "I know it is bad everywhere. And it likely is only going to get worse from what Batman has said. That's why I wanted to go Georgia. Raya is right in the middle of where some of the worst reports had been coming in from. She needs one of us there to help her until it is safe for her to come home."

"You are forgetting my girl is as well-trained as you are." He gentled his tone in order to soothe the maelstrom of emotions he saw swirling upon the younger man's face. "Batman trained the Fenix well, son."

"Martial arts are useless against the undead, Commissioner." Red Robin's hands bunched into fists at his sides. "There's only one way to stop them, as you have already discovered for yourself. However, that is not a method that Raya will ever choose to use. She's even more against lethal methods than Batman."

"Just because Raya cannot use martial arts against the infected doesn't mean she is completely defenseless. My girl's greatest gift is her intellect."

"Defenseless, no," Red Robin agreed. "However, she's not invincible. That's why I asked him to let me go to Georgia and help her. He shot the suggestion down before I even finished asking."

"He shot down you going to Georgia?" Gordon's eyebrows feathered upwards when the other man nodded. "Did he say why? Is there something other than the uncertainty of things making him keep you here?"

"He is afraid we could lure either Lex Luthor or Slade Wilson right to her if we are not careful." Even though that head only lifted slightly, it was enough for Gordon to see those blue eyes were bleak. "Look, Commissioner, the truth is he wants badly to get her and Kai and Rose somewhere safe, but he is afraid if either Robin or I go that we could potentially place them in danger. And he won't go himself because he's Batman and figures he needs to stay and help you and the city of Gotham."

_So that's the way of it, is it, kiddo_? Gordon shook his head. _Kids_. Well, this was one problem he could solve tonight.

"Go," he ordered. "Go and bring my girl and my grandkids home."

_Where they belong_ , he added silently. Red Robin seemed to understand what he was saying because he gave a short, almost imperceptible nod of his head.

"What about Batman?" A questioning light softened that electric gaze. "He's not going to be happy about the fact that you effectively have countermanded his orders."

"You leave it to me to handle Batman," he told him with a slight smile. He didn't need to add how he had been handling Batman for longer than the young man had been alive. "You just go and make sure that my girl and those kids get home safe."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive, son." He glanced at that spotlight. "Truth is I have had to fight not going and retrieving them myself." He turned back to the silent man. "Don't let anybody tell you that being a parent is easy, son. It's not. It's the hardest job in the world on a good day."

"Why didn't you go after them?" He cocked his head to the side. "Were you figuring that Batman would go after them, too?"

"Yes," he admitted with a sigh. "But it's also because I'm an old fool." A wry grin tugged at his lips. "I figured that neither of my girls would want their ole dad rushing in to save them."

"I don't think you are an old fool, Commissioner." A small smile graced Red Robin's lips. "I do, however, think that you are wrong about them not wanting you to rush in and save them."

"No." He shook his head. "They wouldn't. They're grown, girls-"

"… who always call you when they're sad, lonely, or don't know what to do. _You_ ," he stressed, "are their father, Commissioner. And they will always need you to rush in and save them from the monsters lurking in the dark."

_I wish the monsters were only lurking in the dark_ , Gordon thought with a grimace. _Hell, I would take having to hunt down and stop the Joker every night over having to worry about stopping the undead_.

"You're their family," he heard Red Robin saying. "You're their blood."

Gordon clapped a hand to one of those stooped shoulders.

"Family doesn't begin with blood, son," he reminded him gently. "It starts in the heart." He stepped away. "Raya never needed a piece of paper to tell her that you were hers. You just were."

Red Robin was silent for a few seconds. Then the ends of his long lips lifted.

"Thanks, Commissioner," he said. "I needed to hear that."

"Don't mention it," Gordon replied. "Now, go on home and get some sleep," he suggested. "You got a lot of plans to make if you want to get out of this city without your mentor figuring out what it is that you're up to."

"I managed to avoid Batman for an entire night in order to earn my cape." Those teeth flashed again in the darkness. "I'm sure I can sneak out of the city without him catching onto to what I am about."

And with that, he disappeared. Gordon just shook his head.

"Kids," he muttered before he gathered up his files and went back inside the precinct.


	10. Chapter 10

**Somewhere on the outskirts of Atlanta**

_Day 61 of the outbreak (just after midnight) ..._

Raya felt exhaustion start to creep up on her a short time later. Mentally, she calculated the last time she got more than an hour or two of sleep. The answer that came back both stunned and horrified her. _Was the last time I actually slept that final night we spent with Daryl and Merle in Glasbury_? It sounded about right. _It sounds more than about right_. Her brow puckered as she mentally calculated when the last time was that she slept. They had left Glasbury right before dawn on Monday and been traveling at a steady pace since. _And it is early Thursday morning now_.

Two whole days, she realized. _No wonder I feel like I'm about to crash_. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand before resuming her vigil. The world outside the car window was largely a blur. However, it was that world which had forced her to make many of the choices she had recently made. _Things like sleep take a backseat when all that stands between this world and your children happens to be you_.

Oh, she could, she supposed, take a short nap while Rick drove to the small town they'd agreed upon after setting out. Doubt crept over her, forced her to question her decision to travel with a man who was largely a stranger. _I can trust him_ , she told herself. _I know he's one of the good men still left in this world_. That earlier look at his face told her he was a decent, kind man. He reminded her of her uncle Jim in many ways. He also came with a liberal smattering of Bruce tossed into the mix that made things just a bit more interesting _._

She didn't have to shoot Rick a sidelong glance in order to recall his features. Experience had taught her to read a face fast and remember it. His was still fresh in her mind. It struck her as an honest face. Easygoing, friendly. Simple enough to read if one knew what they were looking for. She cast him an amused glance as he muttered some choice expletives under his breath. Temper and pride chased the fatigue and grief she saw etched into those still youthful features. He had broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms. His uniform was neat and clean, the hat tossed on the seat between them a clearly favored one. The hands that curled around the steering wheel were big with long fingers that bore the evidence of a non-sedentary life. She tended to trust big hands on a man. It was the slender, manicured ones she had learned could strike with deadly potency.

An image swam across her visual field of a man with scratches scouring the right side of his face. Dots of blood dotted the tanned and smooth flesh and pooled by the corner of his mouth. A mouth she remembered that could be cruel when it smiled and which smiled when the man was being his most cruel. Both his hair and eyes were the color of melted chocolate. She had once thought he looked like a modern day James Bond in his exquisitely tailored tuxedo, tall and slim, darkly handsome and suitably mysterious. However, she had learned how this man was nothing like the mythical hero all little girls were supposed to believe their daddies to be.

_Oh no_ , she thought as her breath caught; hitched. The man haunting her was a villain — of the same caliber as the ones who threatened to destroy the world with their greed. Unlike those men, though, this man had always managed to hide his predatory nature behind a carefully crafted mask of polish and sophistication, beneath the vast wealth and social prestige granted him at the time of his birth. _No_! she chastised herself. _I can't let him keep controlling me. I can't let him keep having this power over me. Not every man is like him_. _Not every man is going to hurt me like he did._

No, not every man was like Matthew Berkeley Jr. A costumed vigilante, a virtual stranger had taught her how a man could be gentle and kind. _Bruce restored my faith in men. He showed me they were not all abusive monsters._ He also taught her that family did not begin with blood. _It starts with something as simple as compassion._ Tears, pure sentiment, welled. She blinked them away, blamed her overemotional state on exhaustion. Harder to deny was how badly she wanted to see the Batplane swoop out of the sky. She wanted it so much she almost thought it would materialize. _Even grown, and with children of my own, I still want him or uncle Jim to come and rescue me from the monsters._

"What about you?"

"Huh?" She blinked in order to clear away the melancholy replacing her earlier exhaustion. "What about me?"

"Who is helping you to find your…?" She caught the not-so-subtle look Rick aimed at her barren ring finger. " _Their_ father?"

Her face softened at hearing the concern in his voice. _Yes, this is a good man_ , she thought for what had to be the thousandth time that night. Rick Grimes was the kind of man who worried about a single woman traveling with her two children and some dopey white mutt in a world overrun by the undead and only God knew what other dangers. _A man who would_ , she suspected, put their safety ahead of his own. _Not like we'll simply stand by and let him risk his life in order to save us_. No, that was definitely not going to happen. That simply wasn't the sort of woman Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon had raised her to be. Nor was it the type of people she was raising her own children to be.

"Neither of their fathers is currently in the picture," she finally told him after a lengthy pause. "And they haven't been for a very long time."

Again, she told him nothing that wasn't the honest truth. Neither Conner Kent nor Slade Wilson had been a part of their lives for a very long time. She just didn't add that Conner had never been part of Christopher's life and that she willfully kept Slade out of Rose's. _He_ _does not need to know Slade is an international mercenary who is wanted by a number of organizations for multiple counts of murder, kidnapping, torture, arson, and theft_.

"They become one of the infected?"

That simple verbal explosion triggered memories of past conversations she'd had with Daryl about the same subject.

"No." She slid her fingers to the back of his neck and gently rubbed at the taut muscles in slow, soothing circles. "Christopher's father died when I was three months pregnant with him. And Rose's…" she allowed her voice to trail off as she tried to figure out a way in which to explain Slade Wilson that actually said _something_ while giving away _nothing_. "Well, let's just say that Slade-"

"… didn't want to be a full-time father?"

As explanations went, it was the one that hit closest to the truth _._

"Slade wanted us to be a family when it best suited him to be one," she admitted with a soft sigh. "And that just is not how being a family works."

"No," he agreed, gaze straying to the photo of his wife and son. A thousand regrets flickered across his face, echoed in his voice. "It's not."

Her heart went out to him. And because she could, because she was there, she comforted him best as she could.

"Slade _chose_ not to be there for his daughter, Rick," she told him gently. "He put himself before her. You, on the other hand, are doing everything in your power to find your son, to be there for him." She felt those muscles quiver beneath her fingers. "Once you do find Carl, I know that you will do everything in your power to keep him safe." She slid her hand to his shoulder; squeezed. "That alone makes you a much better father than Slade Wilson ever is going to be."

"I'm glad you kicked the son of a bitch's ass to the curb." He sent a look at her from the corner of his eye. "You deserve much better than that asshole."

Her lips curved, warm with affection and humor.

"That's exactly what I told him right before I kicked his ass out of our lives."

_And tossed it right back into the cage I busted it out of in the first place,_ she added silently. She didn't tell Rick about that, though. Somehow, she didn't think he would accept that in order for her to stop a sociopath from saturating an entire city with fear toxin that she had broken out an equally dangerous felon out of a supermax prison run by a secret government agency known as A.R.G.U.S. Even her own family had struggled with coming to terms with _that_ particular decision.

"Deserved his ass kicked," Rick stated. "You're not toys he can take out and play with whenever the mood strikes him."

There was an edge to his tone that told her he had heard those particular words before. It didn't take a huge guess on her part about where. Or from whom. Clearly, the problems between Rick and his wife went quite a bit deeper than she initially believed them. No matter. They would come together once they were reunited. _That's what we are supposed to do as parents,_ she thought as she murmured a faint, "Exactly," in response to his statement. _We come together when the shit is hitting the fan in order to do what's best for our children._

"Is that why you moved down here? To get away from him?"

"It's one of the reasons for why I moved down here." She nodded. "Yes."

One brow arched. " _One_ of the reasons?" A small smile tugged at his lips. "There was more than one reason for why you moved so far away from home?"

"Well, I also wanted my kids to have a more stable and quiet life than they had in Gotham."

A rueful grin tugged at his lips. "That sure went out the window with the outbreak, didn't it?"

"Along with a whole lotta other shit," she agreed with a sigh. "Bruce is gonna have a field day saying he told me so."

"That's why you need to worry about getting home to your own family." He cast a look at her. "You need to worry about what is best for you and your children."

"Not up for debate, Rick."

"You don't know-"

"… where they are?" She reached into the bag on the seat beside her and pulled out a water bottle that she cracked and offered to him. "I know exactly where my family is."

A voice whispered to her about pride and overconfidence being the biggest downfalls of men and women. She ignored that voice, certain her family — who had survived much worse — were safe.

"Lemme guess," Rick lightly said. "In some refugee center?"

"Well, yes," she allowed with a slight nod. "They are, in a sense, in a refugee center."

"In a sense?" he drawled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that there are a lot of underground bunkers in Gotham."

_There's a huge one built beneath a particular mansion in the Bristol District, another one built beneath one of the city's most infamous public buildings, and another below the theater where Martha and Thomas Wayne took their son the night they were murdered..._

"Bunkers?" There was rising interest in his tone. "As in _military_ bunkers?"

"Fully stocked and ready for any sort of wartime scenario or disaster bunkers," she confirmed with a nod. "Yup."

"And how many of these bunkers are there?"

It was a good question. One she didn't even know the answer to.

"Well, let's see," she murmured as she mentally recalled the ones she did know. "The GCPD buildings all have one, Blackgate Penitentiary has an entire underground prison yard and isolation cells, Arkham Island has multiple bunkers, most all of the hospitals and Gotham University have one or two built below their basement levels. There are still a few smaller bunkers beneath the bridges that the workers used when they were building the underground transit system. And there's a few beneath a few of the other pub-"

"So," he kidded. "A lot."

"What can I say?" She flashed him a smile. "We are a distinctly paranoid city."

"It sounds like you are a city prepared for something like this."

"Gothamites are prepared for anything."

…

**Gotham, East End**

A coppery, tangy aroma wafted upon a breeze none of the people - for they were still people in spite of it all — noticed, carrying a scent that tickled what remained of their olfactory senses, and caused their empty bellies to curl into shivery tendrils of anticipation. As one collective beast, they attenuated to that smell, followed it, clinging to it much like a drowning victim did to their last precious seconds of air. One undead bumped blindly into something on his right. It never registered that what he shoved out of his way by repeatedly slamming against it was another human being like himself. His focus, his sole intent at that moment was that smell promising him surcease from the craving haunting him. Drool tinted with the gore from his last meal oozed from what remained of his mouth, ran into the pin-head sized holes lining his chin, and looked like Play-Doh erupting from a small crater in his throat.

He passed a car abandoned in the middle of the road, but no longer is able to see himself in the reflection of the dirty glass. He had no idea that man who stumbled along these narrow streets, grotesque limbs akimbo, was a man those inside this small community knew, loved and respected. He doesn't remember his name was Harvey Bullock, that he had been a decorated member of the Gotham City Police Department, or that he died while trying to save a woman and her three children from being attacked by a horde much like the one following him. The people who watched his approach from the windows of their homes thought he, and those with him, were something straight out of _Night of the Living Dead._

Only there was nobody here to call cut when the scene ended. Nor was this some terrible dream they would all suddenly wake from. No rewind button, no reset set, no restore point existed. They could not undo what this world had done—to them or to people like Detective Bullock. All this small neighborhood in an area of Gotham known as the Narrows could do was prepare themselves for the inevitable invasion. Men and boys not even legally able to drive went for homemade weapons. Those, like the white-haired man who Bullock once called partner and best friend reached for the sidearm in their shoulder holster. Some of the women grabbed up fire axes and baseball bats while shooing youngsters into closets and bathrooms they barricaded with heavy furniture.

Within the span of thirty seconds, the noise of fear and surprise transitioned into the eerie calm of a well-oiled drill team. The small group of survivors fixated upon the business of defending their homes and families, channeling their regret, revulsion, and rage into controlled violence. At their helm stood the Gotham City Police Commissioner, barking orders and issuing directives like any five-star General. And they followed his every command because he, much like their other silent guardians, had chosen to stand with them in this fight for survival.

As one, they watched Bullock and a small band of other infected congregate outside their makeshift walls. They knew the hastily erected barricade formed from whatever materials had been at hand would only momentarily prevent the horde from getting inside their small encampment. Everything they did at this point was just a temporary solution to the undead that moaned their collective frustration, their confusion. Every one of those banging on the walls fashioned from wood and plastic pleaded for relief from the starvation clawing at their backbones with the ferocity of a pride of lions. They repeatedly walked into the structure, slapped at it with palms that no longer felt the roughness of the wood, tore at it with nails that cracked and split. People watched, their bellies knotted with dread as they waited for the walls to come down.

"Be ready," James Gordon told the people around him. "Soon as the first bunch gets inside we open fire."

"Yes, Commissioner."

Some of the men pumped shells into shotgun breeches, while a few of the women raised up the muzzles of revolvers and pistols given to them by the man they followed as their unquestionable leader. All of them waited for the gates of hell to open. The wood planks in the center of the makeshift fence splintered beneath the collective weight of so many bodies pressed up against it less than a second later. The section came down with one huge  _thud_  that rattled the foundations of the houses lining the block.

A dust cloud was kicked up when the wood slammed down onto the ground, obscuring the ravenous mob from the view of the waiting survivors. Everyone waited for them to appear with baited breaths, fingers tightening upon the trigger, hands clenching around the handles of whatever weapons they procured, hearts shivering with a mixture of anticipation and utter dread. The first of the undead staggered through the huge wall of dust, bound and determined to rid themselves of the ache that refused to go away, no matter how much they fed.

More quickly emerged- one by two, three by three, four by five. All fanned out like a pack of wolves just waiting for the right moment to attack. They could see the shambling figures were in various stages of death and decomposition, their bodies slowly melting away with every creaking step they took. All of them were completely ignorant to the fact that their brains were unable to do a complete system shut down and grant them release from the curse the world placed upon them.

The first shot to ring out was fired by Commissioner Gordon. It was the only encouragement the rest of the people needed. Rifle barrels protruded from windows, barking fire and filling up the night air with the smell of cordite. Some of the undead went down in the barrage of bullets. Others took errant bullets to their chest and abdominal cavities. Many hardly noticed they'd even been wounded. Gunfire echoed from all directions as the horde moved forward with determination, precision, and deadly intent.

The stench of so many rotting bodies gathered in one place rose like steam off a hot cup of coffee, clogging the air with the acrid stench of pus, blood, and rancid garbage. The collective clamor of Bullock and his brethren reminded the survivors of the droning of bees, their dissonant moans muting out all other ambient sounds. Some of the undead pulled mangled, putrefied limbs behind them as if they were anchors fastening them to this world. Others stumbled forward with their internal organs hanging from the holes carved into their abdominal and chest cavities, their heads lolling upon their disjointed necks, and their jaws working busily.

Elijah Smith, just returning from a supply run found himself caught between the mob and the barrage of bullets being fired by his neighbors and friends. He remained crouched by a car abandoned out front of a house with green shutters, his shock at seeing such a mass of infected keeping him from making a dash for the safety found inside. He didn't know, couldn't suspect how his fear made him smell like a suckling pig to the hungry horde. He didn't realize his mistake Bullock stumbled towards him, whining pathetically. So fixated was the former detective upon satisfying his need that he barely felt the bullets that slammed into his back, right shoulder and left hip. He continued moving forward, stretching out gnarled, blackened fingers towards Elijah. The younger man rolled out of reach with a curse and a stammered, "Help!"

Bullock gave chase, but Elijah made a break for it when he saw an opening. A stray bullet slammed into the muscle of his thigh and dropped him to one knee.

"Shit!" he grunted. "Shit shit shit!"

"Hurry, son!" Gordon ordered. "Get inside while we hold them off!"

Elijah tried to make a break for the first house, but soon found himself surrounded by a mob hell-bent upon satisfying their hunger.

"Someone!" He begged. "Lord, please, someone help me!"

Doors slammed open as a few brave souls rushed outside.

"Come on!" Gordon shouted as he took aim at a woman in a torn and dirty nightgown. "Get inside the house!"

Elijah fought his way to freedom, but a stray bullet clipped him in the chest, and he was thrown backward. The small group descended upon him then in a frenzied rush.

"Everyone, aim for their heads!" Gordon barked as Bullock and three others ripped into Elijah—two on his left flank, chewing through faded blue denim into his thickly muscled thigh, and straight through to the vein underneath; him on the man's throat, ripping open his jugular. So intent was Bullock upon feeding that he didn't see Gordon lift up his revolver.

"I'm sorry, Harv," he whispered as he squeezed the trigger.

He never heard the bullet.

He never felt it pierce his skull, airbrushing swatches of brain matter upon the side of an old, beat-up brown sedan.

He never saw his former partner and best friend stand over him, tears streaming as he apologized over and over for what he had to do.

Quite simply, Harvey Bullock didn't know anything.

Not anymore.

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Why didn't you go home as soon as this all started?" Rick grimaced before shooting her a small, apologetic smile. "Look, uh, I'm sorry. I know..." he paused to gather together his thoughts. "Shit, I know I'm prying. It's just-"

"…not making a whole lotta sense?"

"No," he admitted with a wry grin. "It's really not."

"I know it's not." Those fingers she'd been using to rub his neck shifted to rest lightly on his shoulder. "However…"

A yawn sounded from the backseat, interpreting whatever it was she had been about to say. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed Rick it was Christopher who momentarily stirred from the exhausted slumber he had fallen into as soon as they set out. The boy peeked one eye open, glanced out the window, mumbled something inarticulate and went right back to sleep. This was why he had opted to go with them. Something about them had tugged at him the instant three pairs of eyes the same color met his. _Honor_. That had been Rick's first impression, and he trusted his first impressions implicitly.

"Look, it's, uh..." He paused to blow out a breath. "Hell, it's more than obvious you and your family are close. The way you talk about them, the way your face lights up whenever you recall some memory, it tells me how much they mean to you. So that's why you not getting home to them before shit got this bad ain't making a whole lick of sense to me."

"Well, when you put it like that, I can see why it doesn't…" She paused, sent him a small smirk. "Make a whole lick of sense."

"But?" Even a walker would be able to smell that _but_. "I know there's a _but_."

"But?" One brow lifted questioningly. "But, what?"

"Statement like that always has a _but_ attached to it," he joked. "So what's the but?"

She snorted a laugh. "Maybe that statement didn't have a _but_." Then she tossed him a mischievous smile that had warning bells going off in his head before drawling, "However…"

Rick laughed. He couldn't stop himself.

"That's cute." He scanned the fields on both sides of the road for signs of movement—human or walker. "That's real cute."

"I know, huh?"

He sent her a smirk. "It's still a _but_."

"Ah, yes, one can _interpret_ it as a _but_ ," she agreed with a slight nod of her head. "However." Those catlike eyes sparkled with impish delight. "It was not a direct use of the word _but_. Which is what you directly implied I was going to say."

"Just get to explaining." He glanced over at her, a grin tugging at his lips. "Smart ass."

"Better a smart ass than a dumb ass."

Rick tossed his head back and let out a soft hoot. "Oh, you're just feeling your oats now, ain't you?"

"Well, yanno what Oscar Wilde said about sarcasm, don'cha?" She primped and preened like a cat after a bowl of cream. "It might very well be the lowest form of wit, but it most certainly showcases the highest form of intelligence."

 _She's got moves_ , he thought as he chuckled softly. Slippery, sneaky, totally unexpected moves. She had managed to read him. Something his own wife, after over a decade of marriage, had been unable to do. Granted, Raya's background in psychology had likely aided her in being able to see he was twisted into knots about where Lori and Carl were. It wasn't why she attempted to ease his tension by either making outrageously flirtatious statements or playfully sarcastic ones. Unbidden, the thought about how Lori wouldn't have done that crept into his mind. He rejected it and focused again on the woman seated beside him.

"How about telling me why you didn't go home when evacuation orders were issued?"

Raya shook her head. "The answer to that question is not a simple one, Rick."

One eyebrow quirked. "Why you didn't go home when the shit started rolling down hill is that complicated to explain?"

"Well," she paused; considered. "It's not _complicated_ , no."

" _But_?" His lips crooked upwards. "I'm smelling another _but_ here."

"But it is involved," she admitted begrudgingly. "And I don't know if it's something we should get into while you're driving."

"I'm a-"

"Cop?" She nodded. "I know you are, Rick."

"But?" There was humor, just a smidgen of it, in his voice. "You sure do like them _buts_."

"Well, I got a different sort of butt I've been getting a mite fond of." Less than a second later she realized what she had just said. "Oh, wow," she stammered. "That was..." She shook her head. "I, um..." Her face colored prettily. "I didn't mean..." She ducked her head. "I did not mean... I have _not_ been looking at your butt or anything." She darted a glance at him. "I just meant I'm getting fond of you." She reached over and set a hand on his arm. "I'm really glad you're here, Rick."

Oh, yeah, the woman _definitely_ had moves, he decided as his blood pressure spiked a few degrees. Smooth, unexpected, incredibly distracting moves. They weren't fast, but they were executed so slickly, so silkily, he had no time to prepare, much less mentally defend himself from them. Part of Rick suspected she used the outrageous comments in order to keep him from delving deeper into the mystery that was her. And that part of him had to admit they served their purpose. _A little too well_...

"The, uh, evacuation?" He somehow managed to say without stuttering like an idiot. "You were explaining about why you couldn't go home when things started to go south."

"No, I was saying a car _isn't_ a good place for me to go into all the why's and how's and what-have-you's behind why I didn't go home when things started to go south."

"Raya." He kept his tone firm. "Just tell me. I can handle whatever the answers are. Hell, I been handling things pretty decently so far."

"Rick." Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "I promise to answer everything once we are somewhere more stationary, okay?"

"Everything?" He couldn't quite keep the note of doubt from his voice. "You will answer every question I ask, regardless of what it is?"

"Yes," she confirmed. " _If_ ," she stressed, "I can answer the question. I don't know if I can answer every question you might have." She glanced at him. "I don't have all the answers, Rick."

"Okay," he agreed with a slight nod. "I can agree to that. So long as you will agree to explain one thing."

She gave him a highly suspicious look.

"And what's that?"

"Just tell me when you knew there was no end to this?"

It was a good question. One that deserved an answer. However, Raya wasn't sure how to reply without getting into that tricky ground she was trying to avoid. She finally settled on telling him a bit of simple truth.

"I knew there was no end when the military showed up to tell me I needed to evacuate to the refugee center in Atlanta."

"Why didn't you go?"

"Why?" She didn't growl it. No, she just sounded as exhausted as she felt. "Because we ran outta time. That's why."

"You ran out of time?"

"A horde had been gathering outside the gate for about three hours," she began as she stared out the window, seeing the flimsily erected barricade intended to keep out the infected, crack and start to splinter…

…

**Blue Ridge, Georgia**

_Ten days after the outbreak (late morning) …_

Their atonal chorus of never-ending hunger caused widespread paranoia to creep over the inhabitants of the once quiet little neighborhood. Attempts to reduce their numbers merely succeeded in attracting even more of the infected to their location. Like a roll of parchment paper used to keep out a hurricane, the wood planks ruptured beneath the collective weight continuously pressing up against it. People started to scream. Some stood frozen on their porches and in their driveways. Others chose to scatter when they realized the danger they were in.

Many reached the sanctity of their homes right as an entire section of the fence came crashing down, a huge _thud_ roaring over rooftops, rattling windows and raising a huge cloud of dust that choked the air as it slapped the ground. People started to scream, to scatter as they started to realize the danger they were in. Less than a moment later, the dust ball coughed up figures in varying shapes and sizes. They looked like an army of life-size dolls that Hasbro and Mattel had rejected because they were simply not safe for kids to play with. They lurched through the opening one after another, tripping over roots and cement blocks in their haste to find sustenance. All were in various stages of death and decomposition, their bodies rotting away with every step they took.

Doors slammed. People raced to find cover. The military opened fire, shooting the undead coming at them with the fury of an F3 tornado. Anybody who didn't get into cover fast enough was mowed down in the barrage of bullets…

…

"They were shooting the living?"

The horrified revulsion in Rick's voice reminded her of how she had felt as she stood at her kitchen window, watching the scene unfold before her very eyes. Even now her belly twisted as she remembered the way blood and brain matter had coated the road, the sides of the cars, the front of the pretty houses all lined up in a row.

"Yes." Her fingers curled into her palms. "They were."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why kill the living? What purpose did it serve?"

"Controlling the outbreak meant eliminating anything that could cause it to continue," she explained in a voice that throbbed with disgust; agony. "We learned quickly that if we weren't safely out of the line of fire when the shooting started?" Her lip curled into a sneer. "We would be shot, too."

"We can't kill the living. We can't go down that road."

"I agree, Rick. But-"

"No," he snapped. "No, _buts_. Not about this. We cannot go down that road. Not if we expect to survive."

"I agree," she said. "We cannot take the lives of the living. We cannot go down that road. Ever. Killing the living makes us exactly like those men and women we have dedicated our lives to bring to justice."

"So is that why you didn't leave?" He blew out a thick breath. "Things had gotten so bad that there was just no way for you to get out?" He grimaced. "Not safely, at least?"

"Partially, yes."

It was the fourth time she answered him with that carefully controlled, neutrally blank voice. Rick found himself picking apart everything she told him about herself and her family. Everything carried a ring of truth to it, that much he could tell. _It's not like she's outright lied in her answers_ , he thought as he surreptitiously studied her. No, it was more that she told him partial truths and carefully controlled answers because there were things she clearly _didn't_ want him figuring out.

 _How to find those things out, though_ , he mused as his gaze swept the road for signs out of the ordinary. Well, now that was going to take some work. And that was mostly because he suspected that this woman had been well-trained in the art of interrogation. A shadow moved along the edge of the road, instantly snatching his attention. _No, not one of them_ , he thought as his belly curled with dread and marble-sized balls of fear. _Please, don't let it be one of them_.

Despite everything inside him shouting at him to keep going, he slowed the Bronco to a crawl. His free hand drifted to his hip, fingers brushing against the butt of his revolver as his gaze zeroed in on that ragged looking figure. Until now they had managed to avoid coming into contact with any walkers. He'd known, though, that their luck could only hold out for so long. He glanced into the trees for signs of other shapes or movement but didn't see more than one disjointed figure shuffling along.

He debated for a minute about whether or not he should alert Raya to the potential danger, but given the lack of verifiable proof, he decided to wait until he was absolutely certain it was one of them before saying anything to her. The way he saw it, the woman had enough going on inside her head at that point and didn't need to stress if there was no reason to do so. He watched with baited breath as the headlights bathed that section of the road in a warm, effervescent glow.

An assortment of items—clothing, piles of refuse and debris, camping equipment and a baby stroller all became visible the closer that the Bronco got to them. He anticipated that at any minute that the light would fall upon a ramshackle figure in some stage of decay, their head wobbling drunkenly upon their bony shoulders, with maggots and other bugs falling from their mangled faces, and cannonball-sized holes in their chests and stomach cavities.

What the light revealed, however, was that what had appeared to be one of the walkers roaming around, was, in reality, the frayed end of a blanket that had gotten snagged on a spindly tree branch. Rick muttered a few choice expletives about his paranoia finally starting to get the better of him. He stomped down on the gas now that the… danger had passed. He wanted to put as many miles between him and that goddamn blanket as he could.

"Rick? What is it?"

"Nothing." No way in hell was he going to admit that he thought a frayed blanket was a member of the infected. "Thought I saw movement along the side of the road is all."

She made a low humming sound deep in her throat.

"Would that something moving along the side of the road be a blanket waving in the breeze?"

He didn't even bother answering.

...

**Outskirts of Gotham City**

On a cliff overlooking the city of Gotham, two heroes stood, staring at the iron giants rising up in the distance. Each was lost inside a cataclysm of dark thoughts, and feeling the weight of the world pressing down upon their broad shoulders. Dressed in red and blue, his cape flowing behind him like a pair of scarlet wings, Superman scanned the horizon with keen eyes. He watched, waiting for any signs of trouble, silently hoping there wouldn't be any. He saw nothing. No traffic flowing across the bridges or highways, no lights inside the steel and chrome high rises, no sirens bleating their distress, no voices raised in panic as another swarm of infected attacked one of the refugee camps.

In fact, he heard _none_ of the normal sounds one expected to hear echoing from the various islands and boroughs that made up this city in the northeastern part of the United States. All was unusually quiet in Gotham. His brow puckered as he considered how… _unusual_ that was. A voice in the back of his head reminded him that looks were deceiving. Especially in a city constantly ravaged by urban warfare and criminally insane individuals in clown make-up and gas masks.

Even with the infected sweeping the streets, there was an untold amount of violence still being perpetrated behind Gotham's closed doors. Crime, as he had learned during his long years serving as one of the world's protectors, did not stop for anyone, or anything. _It will_ , he thought as he released a weary sigh into the night air, _be the one thing that will survive the fall of the free world_.

It bothered him, as it always did, to know innocent people were out there and being hurt by those more than willing to take advantage of them. He, much like the hooded figure beside him, could not do anything to stop these shady deals and violent atrocities from happening. Despite the prevailing belief to the contrary, they were not gods. Their powers and numbers were not infinite. They could not be everywhere and they simply could not stop everything. _Not when we are being forced to take precautionary measures in order to protect and defend ourselves and our loved ones from whatever is causing the dead to rise._

"Are you sure?" The smaller of the two men asked as he turned towards him. "Are you sure nobody has heard from him?"

"I am positive," Superman replied. "I checked with Batman and a few of the other League members to make sure he hadn't got a message to them. They have heard nothing. And," he added with another heavy sigh, "he has not brought Fenix and her children home as he told Batman he would."

"When was he supposed to bring them home?"

"A month ago."

A sigh greeted that answer. Superman shifted to look down at this man who had become both a friend and ally. Grief shadowed the bits of face visible from within the folds of the hood he wore. A quiet maturity and confidence only time and experience could provide shimmered off the younger man in waves. _He has settled well into his role of hero_ , Superman thought as he studied him. _He not only understands who he must be a man but who he needs to be as the Green Arrow, as well_. It was a far cry from the man he first encountered a few years before. _And not liked all that well_ , he mused as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

"Why didn't Flash tell me he was planning to use the Speed Force to go back to before the first cases of the dead rising became known?" There wasn't temper sparking Green Arrow's eyes; that would have been simple enough for him to diffuse. No, there was weariness. Something that not even he, with all his powers and abilities, could combat. "I would have supported his decision. I would have helped him in whatever way I could."

"I don't think Flash assumed he would encounter any problems once he entered the Speed Force." The statement, the quiet truth in it, made even his heart ache. "He has accessed the Speed Force many times in the past and always managed to return once he accomplished whatever he set out to do."

"I am starting to wonder if the Speed Force is not behind what is happening." With a grimace, Arrow turned to walk towards his motorcycle. "It provides a logical explanation for why things have spiraled so far out of control in such a short amount of time."

Superman's eyebrows shot up with the force of his surprise. _I know Bruce and J'onn both suspected the Paradox as the cause,_ he thought as he studied the eyes glowing at him from within the hood's folds. _I never thought that Arrow would suspect the same thing._ It was another reminder of how far the younger hero had come. Oliver Queen might have started life as a spoiled, selfish and singularly obnoxious rich boy, but he had become a man to be reckoned with. All of them had come to respect and value him as an ally.

"You think it could be the Speed Force behind the dead rising?" As soon as he spoke the question, Arrow turned back. In the faint light cast by the sliver of the moon, his expression was grim. "Why?" Superman folded his arms across his chest. "What makes you think the Speed Force could be behind what is happening in the world?"

"It seems like this virus spiraled out of control right after the Flashpoint paradox," Arrow stated flatly. "As soon as we restored the timeline is when the first infected were discovered in New Guinea. That was on May 29th. _Five_ ," he stressed the number, "days after Flash traveled back in time to stop Reverse-Flash from murdering his mother and causing the time rupture to occur in the first place."

"And you think this virus could be the Speed Force's way of telling Flash to stop using it in order to undo events."

"I do." Arrow glanced at him from out the corner of his eye. "And you wouldn't have asked me to meet you here if Batman didn't already suspect something like this as being the cause."

 _Yes, the Green Arrow has definitely come into his own as a hero_ , Superman mused as a slight grin tugged at his lips.

"Batman does think that the Paradox might be what caused this virus to explode as it did. Flash believed the same thing, in fact. That's why he went back to when the first infected were reported."

"He tried to locate the source of the virus?"

"And tried to put a stop to it," Superman confirmed with a nod. "At least." His sigh was as heavy as his heart. "That was his plan."

"And you think something has gone wrong with his plan."

Superman suspected something had gone more than merely _wrong_. Flash would have returned and fulfilled his promise if things had gone accordingly to plan.

"Batman believes Flash has been lost in the Speed Force," he admitted with a faint grimace. "He thinks that is why he has not returned. That he can't return, actually."

Arrow opened his mouth to say something, but the roar of a car engine coming up the road stopped him. He and Superman turned as a familiar black automobile crested the final hill and came skidding to a stop in front of them.

"Well, speak of the devil," Superman joked as Batman emerged from the Batmobile like the dark avenger he had chosen to become. "Wasn't sure if you would be showing up considering everything going on at the moment in Gotham."

"Why wouldn't I show up?" Batman rasped as he studied both heroes with eyes lacking their normal luster. "I am the one who called this meeting."

"And neglected to tell us why." A lopsided grin tugged at the Kryptonian's mouth. "Just like always."

Batman chose to ignore that and focused instead on getting right down to business.

"We have a problem." He drew a weary breath. "The Flash-"

"… has been lost in the Speed Force?" Superman nodded. "We already have guessed as much."

Batman turned eyes that were bleak on him.

"And did you also guess that his being lost has caused a time rift?" He paused. "And that the people on this Earth are slowly being poisoned by the particles of energy that are leaking out of the entry point he created?"

 


	12. Chapter 12

"So," Rick said a few minutes later. "Why is the answer only a partial yes? Why isn't it just yes or no?"

There wasn't so much as a peep out of his otherwise chatty passenger. Even calling her name got him no response whatsoever. A frown darkened his brow as a multitude of reasons for why Raya had suddenly gone quiet raced through his mind. The first thought that came to mind was that exhaustion had finally managed to overtake her. However, a movement along the horizon caused his internal musings to take a darker, more sinister turn.

_Did she see something?_ He wondered as his gaze fixed upon that movement _. Is that why she's suddenly gone quiet? She saw something and she's waiting to get a better look at it before alerting me_? Rick turned his head towards her. His heart stopped when he saw how the mask, the one she had been wearing from the moment they met, had melted away in slumber. Exhaustion, despair, and grief haunted her face; trembled in every breath she drew in and released. _When did you sleep last_? He silently asked as he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. _When did you last feel safe enough you could let down your guard and get some rest_?

The black smudges beneath her eyes told him it had been a few days at least.

_You shouldn't be out here,_ he told her as he guided the Bronco around a bend in the road. _You shouldn't be having to worry about this shit alone_. _There should be someone here to help you. Someone keeping you and your kids safe. Someone who will make sure this fucked up world doesn't take you away from them_.

Even as he thought it, a voice warned him about how he shouldn't be so quick to judge this particular book by her cover. Looks, as he'd discovered for himself many times before, could be deceiving. There was an aura of mystery surrounding this woman as thick as the dark curtain hanging overhead. A million secrets lurked behind her hypnotic eyes, hinting about there being much more to this woman than he assumed. On the outside, Raya appeared to be something as simple to put together as a ten-piece kids puzzle. The more Rick got to know Raya, the longer he was around her, the more he realized how much like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle she was. There were many parts that made up the picture of who - _and what_ , he added silently - she really was.

"Who are you?"

He hadn't meant to speak the question aloud. He flinched as the words bounced around the interior of the vehicle and roused the woman beside him.

"Hm? What you say?" She mumbled a second before she blinked those mesmerizing eyes open. What Rick saw swirling in those green depths punched a hole in his gut. Hell, who wasn't hurting, though? Soon as she became aware of where she was, and who she was with, her gaze sharpened, became more predatory in nature _._ That she could so easily slide that mask back into place told him she was quite aware of wearing it. _And she's quite adept at wearing it, too_. Well, it wasn't like he wasn't without his own bag of tricks for keeping people from seeing what he was thinking or feeling. _Lori's only been accusing me of being the most close mouth son of a bitch ever_ …

"Did you say something, Rick?"

"No," he lied. "Go on back to sleep. We still got a half hour or so before we reach Applewood."

"No, I heard you ask me something…" her eyes narrowed as she tried to recall what she heard. "Something about yes or no?"

"I just asked if you'd fallen asleep on me is all."

"Sorry." Embarrassed color filled her cheeks. "I guess I must have." She sat up in her seat, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. "What were we talking about?"

"Why don't I pull over so you can crawl in the back with Krypto and get some shuteye?" He suggested. "You look like you haven't slept in a few days."

"I'll manage until we get to Applewood." She sent him an easy smile. "Now, what was it that we were talking about before I passed out on you?"

Realizing how pitting himself against her in a match of wills would solve nothing, he acquiesced to her demand to resume their earlier conversation.

"We were talking about the answer for why you didn't leave being only a partial yes."

"Well," she sighed the word. "You have to understand something, Rick. By the time the public received word about how bad things were and got told to evacuate, it was already too late. They closed the borders. Grounded all flights and stopped all boats from leaving. Greyhound's services were shut down. Even Amtrak canceled all of their services after an outbreak occurred on one of their cross-country trains." She paused to take a breath. "People were told to either stay put or head for the refugee camp being set up at the CDC in Atlanta."

"And even that appears to have been difficult given all the abandoned vehicles I've found."

"Tempers got short and people started turning on each other. There simply was no way of getting in or out of the state, not without getting yourself arrested, shot or killed."

"So." Rick tried to absorb the weight of that information but found himself simply unable to believe that so much had happened while he had been lying, unconscious in a hospital bed. "You and pretty much anybody who might have wanted to get the hell out of Georgia basically found yourselves prisoners."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

Her attention got diverted when one of the children — he thought it was Rose - sighed and murmured something he couldn't quite make out. Raya unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over the seat to run her fingers through the girl's glossy curls. Rick watched her in the rearview mirror. _She doesn't just love her children_ , he thought as she reached over to stroke Christopher's face. _She enjoys them_. It was one more piece of evidence screaming at him about how they needed to get home to their family.

"Given everything going on," he said. "Seems like staying put turned out to be the best idea."

"Mhm." She tucked a blanket over her sleeping children. "What I thought, too."

A sign warning everyone to avoid the town ahead appeared on the side of a light pole. Rick kept driving because there was nothing else that could be done.

"Why didn't you leave once the dust had settled, though?"

"We did try and leave," she told him. "We made a number of attempts to leave, actually."

"What kept you from getting home then?"

"There were multiple reasons for why we didn't get home."

Christopher stirred and made to awaken, but a gentle touch from his mother was enough to send him back into slumber.

"What was the biggest one?"

"The military being given orders to bomb our own cities in an effort to stop the outbreak was the biggest deterrent at the time."

Through sheer will, Rick held his fear and his speed in cheek. He could do nothing about the shock and the horror careening through him at her revelation.

"They were bombing cities?"

She settled back in her seat before replying, "Yes, they were," in a monotone. "They were dropping hot napalm on parts of Atlanta in an effort to neutralize the threat."

Terror reached up to choke Rick. For a minute, he couldn't breathe. Part of him wanted to slam on the brakes, toss himself from the Bronco and howl his grief and fear and rage to the ravaged sky. It took everything he had to keep the Bronco on the road. Raya, sensing his distress, reached over to place her hand on his shoulder.

"Rick?" she spoke gently, and all the more effective for it. "Rick, what is it? What's wrong?"

It took him several minutes before he was able to speak around the skeletal hand clenching his throat in a vice-like grip.

"My wife," he rasped. "My wife likely took our son to Atlanta."

Raya breathed out a soft curse as she came to realize what he was thinking.

"Oh, honey, no." She squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sure they weren't in Atlanta when the military started dropping the hot napalm."

He turned burning eyes upon her. "But you don't know for sure that they weren't."

"Well, no, I don't know for sure that they weren't in Atlanta," she admitted with a slight grimace. "But you also don't know for sure if they were."

"It's where Lori would have headed once evacuations were ordered." His hands started to shake. More they wanted to strike. He kept them wrapped around the steering wheel. "Her folks live there."

Raya was silent as she mulled over his words.

"Are you absolutely positive that she would have gone to her folks once evacuations were ordered? She wouldn't have gone anywhere else?"

"Her folks' is the only place I can think she'd go," he frowned at her. "Why?"

"Well, I can't be certain-"

"Goddamn it," he snapped. "Just tell me whatever the hell it is you are thinking. Don't beat around the bush. Not about this."

She sniffed, once, indicating how she did not appreciate him barking at her.

"I was just going to say that it was highly likely they never even made it into the city. The congestion on the highways made getting into Atlanta pretty impossible." She darted a glance at him. "She wouldn't have gotten anywhere near the city limits if she left when orders were first given to evacuate."

"I'm sorry." Instantly contrite, Rick reached up to grip Raya's hand before she could move it away. "I didn't mean-"

"It's all right," she told him in neutral tones. "You're just reacting out of fear for your family's safety."

"Still," he said. "I don't need to be biting your head off. Not your fault. Not any of your doing."

"No, that much is true." She slid her hand down his arm to rest it atop his. "However, I do understand what you are feeling." She glanced back at her sleeping children. "I can't even begin to imagine the hell that you are in right now. My children are here with me and I'm still twisted up in knots. I doubt that I'd be sane, much less able to function if I didn't know where they were, or if they were all right."

"I'm going to find them," he said in a voice that brimmed with false confidence. "I'm going to find them and that's all there is to it."

"I know you will." She gave his hand a reassuring little pat. "And we're going to do our best to help you find them."

"Raya-"

"Still not up for debate, Rick."

...

**Interstate 295**

Robin came awake in stages. His mind stirred first, slowly twisting around what had happened, where he was, whether he was alive or dead. His head began to ache in one steady throb, and then his eyes began to pulsate with it. He soon became aware of other pain – right shoulder, back, neck, right hip, and knee. As he lay quiet, taking an accounting of his physical condition, he realized there wasn't a place that _didn't_ hurt. It was a bearable sort of pain rather than the breath-stealing kind he anticipated he would feel once the Joker got his hands on him.

The way he saw it, feeling pain was a good sign — an extremely good sign, in fact. It meant he was still alive. _For now, at least_ , he thought, grimacing as a jolt of white-hot pain shot through his brain. Cautiously, he blinked open his eyes in order to see where he was and who he was with. He found himself instantly regretting the decision. The world flying by at warped speeds from beyond a thick pane of glass made his belly quiver and burn. He fought the urge to vomit and focused, taking in every sight and sound he could.

He thought he heard the familiar purr and hum of a high-powered five-cylinder engine, but knew he was imagining that he rode in the Batmobile. He distinctly recalled Harley Quinn dosing him in the park. _So_ _is this what happens after you die then_? He wondered. _You get in a car and drive to wherever; whatever the afterlife happens to be_?

His thoughts took an even more interesting turn a second later. If he was supposedly 'dead,' why the hell did his head feel like it was being used as a bongo drum? Wasn't it all supposed to _stop_ hurting after you were dead? _I always knew death was gonna be a huge letdown,_ Robin thought as he swallowed back the bile that gushed, hot and foamy into his mouth. He must have made some type of sound because a small hand was gently laid upon his chest and a voice that better belonged to a little girl whispered to him about how they would be at the hideout, "In a coupla minutes."

Robin managed to twist his head around upon the seat — he finally became conscious of the fact he was racing through the night in a car towards some unknown location and not dead as previously imagined - and stared at Quinn's painted countenance. His stomach curled with disdain and dread. _Why_? he silently asked the older woman. _Why are you doing this?_ He didn't know he had spoken the question aloud until those cornflower eyes turned upon him.

"I promised someone I'd smuggle youse outta Gotham if'n things got really bad." She patted his chest and offered him a tremulous smile. "And I intend ta keep this promise come hell or high water."

Robin was about to demand who she had made this promise too, but silvery fingers reared up and snatched him back into the realm of unconsciousness before he could. After that, the Boy Wonder no longer cared about who Harley Quinn had made this promise too.

Or why.

...

Rick drove until the sky was just starting to turn the sky in the east a lighter shade. It was a false dawn, but he knew the real deal would appear soon enough to illuminate the state of disrepair that the whole damn world had fallen into. A glance in the rear view mirror showed him Christopher was still fast asleep, his head tipped against the window and his arm curled protectively around his younger sister, who slept with her head tucked against his shoulder.

Even the huge white dog had curled himself up into a ball in the back of the Bronco and gone to sleep. Only him and Raya were left awake. _Here we are, a couple of strangers_ _who are facing off against only God knows what, with limited resources at our disposal, and who have to put our full trust and faith in the other in order to protect two kids from the monsters that will tear them apart if we don't stand together_.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

_What's she going to do when I find Lori and Carl?_

The question had been hounding him for the last few hours. Raya was a strong-willed, extremely intelligent and capable woman. She had been a cop once upon a time in cities in the Northeast — Gotham and a place she'd called Blüdhaven to be exact - but she'd given that life up after she found out she was pregnant with her son.

For the last twelve years, she had been working in the private sector, splitting her time between her own practice, patients at an institution she called _Arkham_ , and a bunch of domestic abuse shelters she helped fund. She had been content to allow men and women like him — _officers like him_ , he amended to worry about keeping the world safe from the bad guys.

Unless she had routinely been going to a shooting range to maintain how to fire a weapon properly, she likely had developed a serious case of skills fade. Her cop instincts would still be there, as would all the lessons she'd learned about how to approach a dangerous situation. However, nobody had thought to teach them a class on how to respond to an outbreak of the undead.

Things like that little girl at the gas station, Morgan's wife, the zombie in the park and Leon were not the average suspect they had been taught to deal with as officers. Walkers were a whole new sort of threat, an even more deadly kind than the above average serial killer he used to read about in the papers and watch about in documentaries.

The undead had become the fan favorites of a world who had decided to reset itself by wiping out every human being it could. This world wasn't the world either of them had grown up in. This world was a new type of hell, one that managed to take away just about everything it could simply because there was no way to stop it. _That_ , he realized as he glanced over at the woman sitting quietly beside him, _is what makes this world such a dangerous place_. What had worked in their lives before was simply not going to work now. Raya was not only going to have to overcome rusty weapon skills, but she'd also need to develop new ones in order to contend with the demands of this wretched world in which they lived.

_And one of those things she will need to work on overcoming is her hesitancy to take a life_ , he thought as he navigated the Bronco through a sea of debris that had been abandoned in the middle of the road. _She is gonna have to do the unthinkable if she wants to see herself and her children survive._

And he didn't think she could do it.

In the before world, he'd have respected her dedication and commitment to solving problems in a non-lethal fashion. Trying to resolve issues without firing his weapon was what he had tried to do throughout his own career in law enforcement. Taking a life wasn't something he ever wanted to do. There was always some sort of consequences attached to such an irreversible choice.

Rick knew that from his years as a Kings County Sheriff's Deputy. He understood that fact. He had accepted whenever he strapped on his gun and clipped his badge to his shirt that he could be put into a position where he would need to take a life. Anytime he'd been forced to fire his gun while on duty had carved away a small piece of his heart. _And created a small tear inside my soul_.

He was already paying a heavy toll for having killed that little girl back at the gas station. Until that moment, he had never imagined, much less saw himself ever being forced into a situation where he'd have to shoot a child. However, that was exactly what this world had demanded he do in order to survive.

Raya was clearly not considering how she could find herself in the same exact situation. She wasn't ready, or willing to admit that she could be going home to a family who were all like that little girl. _And that she'll have to shoot them in order to ensure that neither she, Rose or Christopher get bitten_. Someone – and since he was the only one there he figured it fell on him to do - needed to make her consider that possibility.

"Raya, what happens if you return home and find your family has all been infected? That they've all turned?"

"They aren't infected," she assured him with a confidence that he did not feel. "And they won't be turned."

What had happened to Morgan's wife was enough to tell him that nobody was safe from this disease. _What happens if one of the kids gets sick? If they turn? What if she is the one who turns? What's that going to do to her kids? Or to her, if she's forced to put them down in order to end their suffering_? He made a note to discuss all those possibilities with her once they were settled somewhere safe. _Safe_. The very idea almost made him want to laugh. Or weep. He didn't think they'd ever be safe again. How could they be safe in a world that was infested with some type of disease they had no idea how to combat other than through putting a bullet through the infected person's brain?

"You don't know that they aren't infected," he told her gently. "You have no way of knowing whether or not they're okay. No more than I know if Lori and Carl are okay."

"I have faith that they are okay," she replied as the small town of Applewood loomed in the distance. "Same as you."

Rick found himself hoping her faith would prove to be stronger than his.


	13. Chapter 13

**Quarry Camp (Few miles outside of Atlanta)**

Daryl sat with his back against a tree trunk, staring at the needle-thin piece of wood he held between his fingers through narrowed eyes. He didn't have any clue about what the hell the strange oriental lettering embossed down one side of the dark wood said, but he did know the damn thing was a helluva lot sharper than the tips of his crossbow bolts, made from a thick, sturdy wood - most likely teak or pine from the feel of it - and seemed to be perfectly suited to be thrown from a small distance. He held the small stick up to the thin beam of moonlight peeking its way through the thick canopy of leaves overhead, studying the images carved into the polished finish with great interest.

The bird with its wings spread wide looked like the one he'd seen painted on the hood of Sam Johnson's Trans-Am. He recalled the prick having called it a phoenix or some other type of mythological shit. He recalled that Mule had dozens of other knives and swords with the same bird depicted upon them in the armory he'd found in the basement of her house. _Why the hell she has it on a chopstick beats the hell outta me, though_. It seemed like a rather dumb thing to have put on what amounted to him as some form of eating utensil people used to eat oriental food. _Not_ , he amended as he slowly turned the stick in his fingers, _that eating is why Mule uses it_.

Given what he knew about her; about her past, he suspected this to be more than some eating utensil. Considering how she stuck the damn thing behind her right ear, he assumed it was something else out of that mini-arsenal he had unwittingly uncovered. Something that went along with her other persona, the superhero one she claimed to be. A single word, _Fenix_ reverberated through his mind. _That's what she said her damn name was. Fenix_. He had not believed for one minute that she was really some do-gooder in a mask.

It just wasn't feasible, not in his mind at least, that a woman like Mule could manage to be a shrink by day and some sorta avenging angel by night. Not without people putting two and two together. He figured she'd been screwing with him, trying to take the edge off the situation they were in by telling him something ridiculous. He turned the stick between his fingers as he allowed his mind to drift back to that conversation.

…

**Blue Ridge**

_10 days after the outbreak…_

"Those weapons? That body armor? It all belongs to a woman known throughout all of Gotham as the Fenix."

"Yeah?" Daryl didn't even bother trying to mask his doubt. "And I'm the King of France."

To the woman's credit, she didn't bother trying to conceal her sass. Not that he actually expected her too. The mule-headed woman seemed hell-bent on getting smart with him at every chance she got. He didn't know what annoyed him more: her mouthing off at him, or the fact that he got a kick ought of her mouthing off at him. The woman possessed a quick wit and a sharp intellect, that was the damned truth. And she tended to use both with a level of finesse and sophistication that amazed him.

"There isn't a King of France," she informed him tartly. "There hasn't been one since Napoleon, actually. And-"

"Whatever." He dropped the black half-mask back into the drawer he had taken it out of before turning to look at her. "Why don't you try yankin' my other leg? 'Cause I don't believe for one minute that you are some kinda modern day vigilante."

"Believe me or not, Tarzan." Those gently sloped shoulders lifted into a shrug. "The choice is yours. I know who and what I am."

"And I keep tellin' you that I ain't no damn Tarzan." He narrowed his eyes. "Why you gotta insist on callin' me that?"

"Why do you call me Mule?"

"'Cause you a damn mule," he retorted. "That's why."

"Well," she shot right back. "You fit the characterization for Tarzan. So I call you Tarzan."

"How the hell I fit the characterization for some fictional character?"

"Tarzan is largely depicted as being extremely agile, tall, good-looking, and very skilled as a hunter. He is also courageous, intelligent, loyal, and firm, but fair." Again those shoulders lifted into a faint shrug. "Sounds pretty spot-on to me."

"Do I look like I'm wearing a damn loincloth here?" Daryl crossed his arms across his chest. "Or that I was raised by a buncha hairy apes on some island?"

The keen interest that flickered across her face and mixed with the impish light in her eyes made him regret his choice of words instantly. _Give her an inch and she takes a damn mile_ , he thought as he looked down and away from her.

"I'm pretty sure I have something upstairs that could work as a loincloth." She snickered at his sigh. "What? You're the one who said you weren't wearing one."

Daryl opted to change the subject before he said something that he could end up regretting. "Why should I believe you're some superhero?" He hunched his shoulders and darted a look at her from beneath his lashes. "Hell kinda proof you got besides some fancy ass costume and a few toys?"

Raya took a seat on the stairs before she answered. "Well," she paused; smirked. " _Daryl_ , my proof is the set of skills I possess."

It was said smoothly, every word coated with quiet assurance and a glacier-like confidence that managed to impress even his cynical side. He had seen her impression of Mary-Lou Retton when she back flipped out of the tree in her front yard. There had been no hesitation, no fear and no thought or care for her own safety and well-being. Every thought had been to get the kid out of danger.

"Skills?" He cocked his head. "What sorta skills?"

"The sort that I had to acquire over a very long, and very arduous apprenticeship."

"Oh, yeah?" He scoffed. "And who you get these particular skills from? Batman?"

"Why as a matter of fact, yes." Her lips curved into a smile full of feminine superiority. "Yes, I did get my skills from Batman. And believe me..." Her eyes became a sharp, intense and vibrant green. "The skills he taught me all make me a very serious threat. Especially," her voice dropped an octave. "To those who hurt the young, the old, the infirm and the innocent."

Her words, spoken in an eerily calm tone caused Daryl's blood to run cold. A voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that she _knew_. A quick look at her face confirmed his suspicions were true. She knew his deepest, darkest secrets. _How the hell did she figure it out_? He suspected the answer was in all that psychobabble she knew. It had allowed her to read him. Knowing she had managed to uncover the truth of his past left him feeling more than a little bit vulnerable, and quite a bit edgy.

He stepped towards her, intending to tell her to keep her nose outta his business, but a low warning growl sounded from the dog asleep at her feet. As if he had any intention of putting his hands on her. The dog didn't know that, though. The dog didn't know him from Adam. _Ain't like I can blame him for doing his job_. That she at least had the big white dog protecting her and her kids brought him some measure of comfort. _She ain't invincible_ , he thought as he looked down into the dog's big brown eyes. _Just 'cause she thinks she is_ _Xena: Warrior Princess don't mean she can't get killed like the rest of us_.

Just because he was concerned for hers and her children's safety didn't give her the right to shrink him, though. If he wanted or needed her help, he'd ask her for it. _And she needs to get that fact through her thick skull_ , he decided, _before we try and leave_.

"Don't you go analyzin' me." He shot her a warning look from beneath lowered lashes. "You hear me? Don't be using any of that psychology shit on me."

Her face softened as she stared at him, her lower lip quivering and causing unease to shoot through him. In the shadows of the basement, her eyes seemed to glow. Deeply green, intensely sad. And swirling with a tidal wave of understanding and sympathy.

"Oh, love," she murmured. "I don't even have to analyze you to know your story."

"Yeah?" He turned away and stared at the weapons neatly lined up in rows. "And why's that?"

"Because your story is the same as my adopted brother, Jason's." He glanced back to see her small, sad smile. "Everything about you reminds me of him actually. The don't-fuck-with-me attitude, the hard exterior that hides the good heart beneath, the fighter who won't ever say die. It's all Jason. Well," there was amusement in her tone now. Just a sprinkle of it. "It's a grittier, gruffer and frequently more jerky version of Jason."

"You don't know shit about me, lady."

"I know more about you than you are comfortable with me knowing," she retorted without any real heat or smugness in her tone. "I see you, the _real_ you," she said before he could interrupt her. "Not the one that you present to the world. And you don't like it because you aren't used to someone being able to see behind the wall to who you are. And what unsettles you even more?" Her lips curved. "I still like you even when you are being a jerk."

"Makes you so cocksure of yourself? Huh? What makes you think that you know anythin' about me or my life?"

"Like knows like, Daryl Dixon."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She bowed her head. "See, someone who grew up in that same cycle? Who went through it? They always know it when they see it. Just how it is."

"Hell you know about it?" He demanded. "You didn't grow up strugglin' to survive. You didn't have to fight every damn day of your life. You grew up in a fancy house with a butler."

"Just like Jason." She shook her head. "He thought I was just some pretty and pampered little princess who had her American Express taken away by daddy. He found out the hard way that his assumptions were just that. And," she added, lifting her eyes to his, "he felt like a pretty big asshole when he found out how wrong he was about me."

"Yeah?"

She indicated the black half-mask with her hand. "That? That's not my mask. That's my real face. My mask? It's the face that I let the world see. The world thinks of me as a rich, pampered and sophisticated socialite. The real me, though? She's so not that."

He digested her words in silence. If there was anything he had learned about her in the last few hours it was that she was unfailingly honest. Even when he didn't want her to be. _Especially_ , he corrected as he worked out what to say in response _when I don't want her to be_.

"Look, just don't go analyzin' me. If I want your help? I'll ask for it. A'ight?"

"Yanno, I don't tend to talk about it either." She reached down to scratch behind Krypto's ears. "Not talking about it seemed to make it seem less real. Like the abuse happened to someone else." She allowed the big mutt to crawl into her lap, not bothered in the least that he was crushing her with his weight. "Only been in the last few years that I finally was able to open up and tell the other members of my family the truth about what happened in that house."

More tired than angry now, Daryl stepped as far away from her as he could because of how easy, terrifyingly easy, it would be to step toward her. And ask the questions haunting him all his life. _Like why_. He kept the words locked inside. No way in hell was he gonna go down that path. Not when he needed to get out there and find wherever the hell it was that Merle had taken himself off too. _Probably off somewhere gettin' drunk or stoned_. He swallowed back the familiar sting of bitterness and resentment and looked at her.

"So who was it?" He surprised himself by asking. "Since you seem so damn set on talkin' about this shit."

"The sperm donor listed on my birth certificate as my father." She tilted her head back to show him a thin, jagged line permanently etched into the flesh of her throat. "His final gift to me," she told him in a voice that absolutely throbbed with repressed emotion. "The last thing I get to remember him by."

"He dead?" Anger rippled in every syllable. "He get killed when this shit went down?"

"No." She shook her head. "He was killed a number of years back by an unknown assailant."

"Good. What the asshole deserved."

She studied him quietly for a few moments.

"Is that who it was for you?" She kept her tone gentle. "Your father?"

He didn't bother to answer.

…

"You still moonin' over Miss Priss?" He heard Merle grumble from his sleeping bag. He shook himself from his pensive thoughts and looked over at him. "C'mon, man, get over her."

"Ain't moonin' over nobody."

"Right." Merle scoffed. "You ain't shut up about her since we got separated from her dumb ass."

"Maybe 'cause I give a shit about hers, as well as those kids well-being."

"Whatever, man." Merle rolled his eyes. "Just get over her already. Got shit to do and can't have you mopin' about over some piece of fuzz."

"She's out there alone." A bit of his worry and frustration crept into his tone. "Ain't no way she can survive out there on her own. She needs people around her to help her keep them kids alive."

"I done warned your ass she'd up and leave you at the drop of a hat." Merle twisted onto his side so he could fish in his bags for a pack of smokes. "And that's what she done did just as soon as a better prospect came along."

"Mhm." There was no point in saying anything else. Merle wouldn't believe or accept there being any other reason for why Mule had not met them at their scheduled meeting spot. Daryl suspected something had happened that prevented her from getting to the campsite he had told her to head for should they end up getting separated. He just didn't know what that something was.

"Don't you _mhm_ me, son." A veiled note of warning coated his brother's words. "I done told you a fancy piece of city ass like that wouldn't lower herself to screwin' some dirty hillbilly."

"Ain't lookin' to screw around with her."

It wasn't a lie. He wasn't looking to screw around with Mule. What exactly he felt towards her, beyond worry for hers and her family's safety, he didn't honestly know. He enjoyed her company, and the camaraderie between them, that much was the truth. Was he attracted to her physically? Or interested in her in a way beyond friendship? He couldn't say. Not that it was anybody, least of all his brother's, business.

"If you ain't looking to get your piece wet," Merle rasped. "Then what the hell you want with her? What other use is there for a woman besides being flat on her pretty lil' backside?"

"Look, I just wanna know she and them kids are a'ight."

Again, it was not a lie. He did want to know Mule and them kids were okay. To know they were safe. _That they're waitin' for me to find them_. He kept that thought to himself. His brother wouldn't understand what he felt when he was around Mule. _He doesn't know what it's like to feel as if you belong to somethin'. As if you are part of somethin'._ He mattered to Mule. And to them kids. Explaining that to Merle though would be like trying to skin a rabbit with a spoon. And if he told him how he went hunting in order to look for Mule? It would only set him off.

"You best just get over her and them scrawny brats of hers," Merle muttered as he placed his arm behind his head. "We got us a camp here to rob clean."

Daryl slid Mule's hairpiece into his pocket before grumbling, "I done told you I ain't moonin' over Mule."

"Shit, little brother, ain't like I blame you none for moonin' over the bitch." Merle shot him a leering grin. "Hell, truth is ole Merle wouldn't mind gettin' a piece of that ass for himself. Bet she'd taste as sweet as a fresh peach."

Daryl knew it was just Merle being his usual self. However, hearing him say that shit about Mule, who was the most decent, classiest woman he had ever met caused his belly to tighten with fury. His hand wanted to bunch into a fist. More, it wanted to plant itself in his brother's mouth. Deliberately, he curled it, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his pants.

"I done told you I ain't moonin' over her." He shoved to his feet. "Now quit it."

"Hey, now lookie here, son." Merle glanced up at him. "Ain't no need to go get yourself in a tizzy. I don't mean nothin' by any of the shit I'm sayin'."

"I ain't in no damn tizzy."

"Then where you going in the middle of the night? Bars are all closed, son." Merle's teeth flashed white in the darkness. "In case you ain't heard, there's an apocalypse goin' on."

Daryl sniffed as he grabbed up his crossbow. "Ain't lookin' to go get drunk."

Only silently did he add, that is more your way of copin' with shit.

"Then where the hell you goin'?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. "After Mule."

A curse was followed by, "Why you goin' after Prissy?"

"'Cause shit doesn't make sense is why."

"Like what?" Merle cocked his head towards him. "What don't make sense, little brother? That Prissy found a respectable man to take care of her and them brats? That she found someone in her league who could give 'em a home and better protection than your hick ass ever could?"

"I just wanna know why Mule took them kids and left Glasbury."

"I done told you why her cute ass packed up them kids and left that bullshit camp."

_Yeah_ , was Daryl's thought. You told me why she packed them, kids, up and left that camp. _Said that why she left without speakin' a word of it to me was 'cause she was tryin' to spare my feelings_. The problem with that was that it was Merle who told him. Daryl didn't believe, not for one damned minute that what his brother told him was the honest to God's truth. Something happened while he was out hunting, something Merle wasn't divulging and that he suspected led to Mule leaving like she did. And if there was one thing Daryl had decided upon, it was that he was gonna track down Mule and demand what the something was.

_And she best have a damn good reason why_ he thought before he turned to head into the forest. Merle's dark rasp stopped him.

"You hellbent on goin', ain't you?"

"Yup."

"Now, lookie here, son." Merle rolled to his feet with a curse. "I done told your ass that we got us a camp-"

"Don't give a shit about what you done told me," Daryl cut-in. "She got kids, man. Ain't leavin' 'em out there in this bullshit."

"Why you so set on helping her? Huh?" It wasn't annoyance in Merle's voice as much as it was weariness now. "Priss ain't never cooked you a meal or felicitated your piece. So why you so willing to die for her and her two scrawny brats?"

"'Cause they out there alone."

And it was really as simple as that for him. As strong a woman as Mule was, as good a fighter; a shot, she was still out there, in a world full of geeks and biters, with her two kids and a dog he didn't believe was really a dog. _She can't do this shit alone_ , he thought as he slung his crossbow over his shoulder. _She needs people to help her keep her kids safe_. Merle wouldn't understand that, though. _Or maybe_ , he reasoned as he sent a long look at his older brother, _it's just he doesn't give a shit 'bout nobody and nothin' but himself_.

If he was gonna lay down a bet on which was the most likely answer, the second would be the one he'd chose.

"Whatever." Merle flopped down atop his sleeping bag. "Go after the uppity bitch then. Don't mean shit to me."

"Didn't think it would." Daryl turned and headed into the woods. "Jack-ass."


	14. Chapter 14

**Wayne Manor**

Tim found the note as he was packing the items he wanted to take with him into his duffel bag. The slip of paper was clinging to the bottom of the bag, smelled faintly of old, sweaty clothes and was a bit yellowed around the corners from age. A puzzled frown creased his brow as he slowly drew the folded up piece of paper from the bag and examined it. _What's this_? he found himself wondering as he turned the paper left and right. _Is this an old note from Alfred reminding me to pack more than two changes of socks and underwear_?

A small grin tugged at his lips as he recalled the dozens of other notes Alfred had left him over the years. Many of them had been a reminder about how normal people packed more than just their cape and body armor when they went on trips, but there were quite a few that had contained other messages. Suggestions and hints for where to look for a particular suspect or piece of information, words imparted to offer comfort and wisdom, Alfred tended to be a master at providing whatever he thought they needed to know when it was he felt they needed to know it.

_Jason is absolutely right in that everybody should have an Alfred in their lives_ , he thought as he slowly; carefully peeled apart the pieces of paper. However, the words scrawled across the middle of the paper were not written in Alfred's more flowing handwriting. They were also not words the butler would opt to leave to him: _When the night is the darkest is when the Fenix rises_.

"When the…?" he breathed out around the lump that formed in his throat. "When… how…" his voice trailed off as he stared at those oh-so-familiar words, remembering exactly when and where Raya had last spoken them to him, and why she had said them to him. His fingers trembled as a dark cliff overlooking the city of Gotham swam before his eyes. Two figures, one dressed in the familiar black armor with the scalloped cape and pointy-eared cowl that had become a symbol of Batman and another dressed in the red-and-black armor that formerly belonged to Jason Todd when he had gone by the moniker of the Red Robin.

…

**Outskirts of Gotham**

_A little over a year before the outbreak…_

He grabbed his arm before he could turn. Nerves already stretched to the breaking point started to fray and snap. Only sheer will kept him from reaching for the bo-staff clipped to his utility belt.

"Let me go, Dick." He heard the threat in his tone the same as Dick but did not apologize for it. He had had enough. " _Now_."

"No."

Tim twisted his body inwards and flipped Dick onto his back. Dick rolled nimbly to his feet and faced him, body coiled and ready for an attack. However, the attack that came wasn't the one he anticipated getting.

"You think I don't know how crazy everything I am saying is?" he shouted at the stunned man. "You think I don't realize how far down the rabbit I am going?" He sent a half-hearted swing at the older man that he easily blocked. "I've lost my parents, my step-mother, my best friend..."

"I know-"

"You want me to accept I've lost Bruce now as well." Dick nimbly leaped over the leg Tim tried to use to sweep his out from beneath him. "I can't do it, Dick. I just can't accept losing him on top of everyone else. It's just not possible."

"Look, I-"

"I know I'm right about Bruce." He sent a kick at Dick that barely grazed his shoulder. "I _know_ he's alive."

"Tim," Dick kept his tone light, reasonable. "I understand how you feel. I do. I don't want to admit that he's gone either. But facts are-"

_"No, you don't understand how I feel, Dick," he interjected. "You don't have a clue as to what I am feeling at this moment. If you did you wouldn't be asking me to accept Bruce is gone_."

"There's a therapist in Metropolis." Dick easily blocked his high kick. "She's a friend of Raya's-"

"No." Tim tossed a handful of his new emblem discs at the same time that he reached for the collapsible bo-staff clipped to his belt. "I'm done here."

Dick moved to the side to avoid being clipped by the round projectiles.

"C'mon, this isn't accomplishing..." he trailed off when he felt the blunt edge of Tim's bo slap against his chest-plate. He lifted his head and fixed Tim with a look that was both surprised and questioning. "Anything?"

"I'm leaving," Tim informed him in one long, cool rasp. "And I need you to let me go." Dick opened his mouth to protest, but Tim pushed the staff deeper. "You called us equals, Dick. Said that we're brothers. Well, if we really are equals, and if we really are brothers... then believe in me. And let me go on my search. I've earned it."

It was a lot to ask of him and Tim knew it. Dick could have forced his will on him. It was what Bruce would have done. Dick, however, was not Bruce. Instead of pushing Tim into doing what he wanted, he chose to step back.

"Just be careful," was all he said.

Tim gave a short nod before he sped off a second later.

…

His thoughts and emotions were in a whirl as the memory faded. He hardly ever quarreled with Dick. As far as his relationships with his brothers went, his and Dick's was the strongest. However, that had been one of the lowest points in his, as well as the rest of his family's life. The months following Bruce's disappearance had been harder even then the ones following Conner's death. He had struggled with coming to terms with the abrupt changes being made to his life. Not only was he expected to accept the loss of his adoptive father and mentor, but he had also been forced to watch as his role of Robin got officially handed down to a violent little twerp.

Much like Dick after Bruce had fired him as Robin, he had been left to figure out what his identity – both as a crime fighter and as a man - was supposed to be. He was no longer Robin, but he didn't have another identity he could usurp in the way Dick had the identity of Nightwing. Then a much-needed light had shined through the darkness and not only brought him a ray of hope, but a reminder of who he was, as well…

…

**The outskirts of Gotham**

_A little over a year before the outbreak…_

He spied the dark figure leaning against a guardrail a split-second before he roared by them on his bike. _What the hell is she doing in Gotham_? He slowed the bike to a stop, his mind exploding with a dozen of different questions that all begged for questions. _Why hadn't Dick mentioned she was here?_ His brow furrowed beneath his cowl. _Are Kai and Rosie with back at Wayne Manor?_ He turned the bike and slowly headed back to where she stood, still scanning the screen of the tablet she held between her gloved hands. Tim dropped one booted foot onto the wet pavement in order to study her spandex-clad figure. Motherhood had added a layer of maturity to her, rounding out the ice-sculpted edges and softening the grief carved on her face the night a bomb blew apart a warehouse and claimed the life of Conner Kent.

_Has it really been twelve years long since Conner was killed_? It was hard to imagine so much time had passed. Losing Conner had brought him and Raya even closer than they already were. However, her best friend was, and always would be, Dick Grayson. _She'll side with Dick_ , he thought as a rush of bitterness streaked hotly through his veins. _Same as she always does_.

"Well, guess Dick wasn't kidding when he said everyone was worried about me," he said in lieu of a greeting. "When exactly did he call you home?"

Her gaze shifted from the tablet in her hands to his. Tim saw her eyes were soft with a wealth of understanding and sympathy. His teeth gnashed. His emotions, already raw, pumped through him like a fast-acting drug. Any second he thought he would simply implode from the virulent inferno raging inside him.

"Answer me, Raya."

To her credit, Raya did not flatten him as he deserved. She merely slid the datapad into one of her suit's hidden compartments before saying calmly, "He didn't call me, Tim."

Tim snorted a laugh. "Right."

"I have not spoken to Dick in close to three days."

He didn't buy that for one minute.

"That's a bald-faced-"

"Careful, Timothy."

The quiet warning curbed the rest of what he had been about to say, but in no means did it zip his mouth shut.

"Who called you, then?" he demanded. "I know someone called and asked you to come and check up on me. Who was it?"

"Nobody called me and asked me to come and check on you."

"Bullshit."

"Timothy," she again quietly warned. "I am being tolerant of your belligerency because you are hurting, but even I am only willing to allow you to bark at me for so long."

Tim tried to heed her suggestion, but his mouth was set on rapid fire.

"If it wasn't Dick who called you, then who was it? Alfred? Barbara? Stephanie?"

"In the last sixty-one hours, I have had phone calls from Alfred, Barbara, uncle Jim, Clark, Damian, Cassie, and Jason. And the only two people I have called back were uncle Jim and Alfred." She fished in one of her suit's pockets and pulled out her cellphone. Held it out to him. "You can check both my call and text logs if you don't believe me."

"That's not your only phone, Raya."

She stepped to him, smoothed her hand over his cheek. "You can check that phone as well, Timmy."

That she was willing to strip aside, by her own free volition, every inch of her privacy in order to prove her honesty hammered at what little of his defenses remained. And stole some of the wind outta his sails.

"I'm sure Alfr-"

"Called to convey his concerns as well as to ask my professional opinion on what he should do to help you through this particularly rough patch. But he did not," she stated in a firm tone, "ask me to check up on you." She looked down at the ground before admitting, "And that likely is because he already knew, or suspected that I have been the one keeping watch over you for the last several days."

"So, you were spying on me!" Temper sizzled in every word. "Just like Stephanie! You didn't care enough about me to come to me directly! You couldn't talk to me face-to-face! Or listen to what I had to say!" He took a shuddering breath. "You didn't care enough to just be here for me."

"I'm sorry if my watching over you upsets you." She stepped to him and set a hand on his shoulder. "In my defense, I was merely trying to give you some space and freedom in which to breathe."

"I needed you, Nix…" He hated the whining note flavoring his voice. "I needed you and you weren't there."

"I was here, Tim." She soothed in that way she had. "I was just waiting for you to call me when you were ready to talk."

Knowing she had kept watch while waiting for him to reach out only made him feel worse instead of better. His emotions ragged, his thoughts in a whirl, he shoved her hand off his shoulder and snarled, "You probably just think like the rest of them, that my grief and shock over losing Bruce has driven me crazy."

"Oh, baby, no." She shook her head. "No, I don't think your grief has driven you insane. Do I think it is tearing you apart inside?" She nodded. "Yes, I do. But I do not think you are crazy. Not at all."

Tim sneered now, damning them both, but himself most of all.

"Really?" Sarcasm dripped like acid as he pulled his cowl off and glared one long, frustrated stare. "You don't think my grief and shock over losing Bruce has convinced me he is alive and out there somewhere?"

"No." Definitive and final. The conviction of a loyalist. _Or a fool_ , he reasoned. "I don't."

He barked a laugh. "I'm working with Ra's al Ghul, Raya." There was a monster in his head, teasing, taunting, and torturing him, loosening his tongue and making him spew the toxic sludge swirling around inside him. "If that doesn't tell you how far off the reservation I have gone, I don't know what will."

"That does not mean you are crazy."

"Yeah?" His mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. "And why is that?"

"Because." She framed his face with her hands, ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. Then seeming to realize he was trembling as much from fatigue as grief, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tight. "I know my Robin would never say something he doesn't believe in his heart or doesn't think has the possibility to be true."

She humbled him. This pretty, green-eyed brunette who had been sweetly supportive, gently compassionate, then completely honest all in the span of ten minutes had brought him to his knees.

"Goddamn it, Raya." His shoulders sagged as the fight went out of him. "Why can't they see that it's possible he's alive? Why is it so impossible for them to believe that I might be right?"

Her sigh stirred the hair at his temple. "Because it's easier for them to give up hope now and deal with their grief rather than give up their grief and have their hopes crushed."

He thought what she said over. It was sensible. And it was logical. Tim found he preferred her sensible logic more than he did the carefully worded phrases of concern that he had been receiving from everyone else the last couple of weeks.

"I'm leaving Gotham in the morning." He angled his head back in order to look at her. "I'm going to search for clues to prove I am right. Bruce is out there. He's alive."

"Define what you mean by somewhere."

_Here it is_ , he thought as he drew in a deep, calming breath. _Here is where she changes her mind and decides that I need a room booked in Arkham._

"I think Bruce got caught up in Darkseid's _Omega Sanction_."

One dark brow lifted. "And why do you think that he was caught in the _Omega Sanction_?"

"Well, I found some things," he spoke slowly; cautiously. "Just some cave drawings really. They suggest he has been traveling through time and is on a crash course with here."

"How do you know it is Bruce and not someone trying to yank your chain?"

"The drawings all depict a Bat-like figure."

If she was surprised by his announcement, it didn't show. In fact, nothing showed on her face but for a quiet pensiveness.

"Okay…" She didn't smile. No, her face went almost eerily intent. "How can I help?"

Dumbfounded, all he could stutter was an idiotic sounding, "Huh?"

"I asked how I can help." Her smile did bloom then. "What can I do to help you find Bruce and bring him home?"

Taken completely off guard, Tim could do nothing but stare at her in open-mouthed amazement. _This_ , he realized as he stared into those magnetic eyes. This was exactly what he'd needed, what he'd wanted for the last six months and ruthlessly been denying himself. Comfort and love and the faith that came from loyalty. Raya was the rock he could lean on, the emotional support he could count on. She was the one person he should have known he could have called upon for help because she would just get it. _She knows I can't let Bruce go_ , he thought as his cheeks began to burn with the depth of his humiliation and shame, _not any more than she can let him go_.

"Raya..." her name came out as barely a croak. "I... wow..." he lowered his head. "I don't even know what to say."

"You're my younger brother, Tim," she told him simply. "And I will do any-"

The sound of a familiar car roaring up the road towards them drew their attention.

"Shit," Tim muttered as a beam of headlights fell on them, blinding them both. "Totally forgot about him."

"I'll deal with Dick." Her fingers brushed his shoulder in a gentle caress before she stepped away, and turned to greet the man driving that black automobile, its elegant lines shimmering in the speckle of light cast by the streetlamps. Over her shoulder she said, "You go on and get out of here, Tim. We can discuss things later. Figure out how we should proceed and where the most likely place to begin even is."

Tim bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. He owed her an apology. He knew he did. Just as he knew Raya would waive the apology away, say again that he was her brother, and that she understood he was lashing out at her only because he was hurting so damn much. _Some things just shouldn't be waved away_ , he thought as he stared at her taut back. _Some things should not be forgotten or so easily excused_.

"No." He curled his fingers around her wrist, surprising her, as much as himself with his sudden intensity. "No. I don't want you to get involved. Not in this." Because he wanted her to look at him, he cupped her chin gently in his fingertips, held her gaze steady. "This is for Dick and me to resolve. Don't get involved, okay?"

"Tim." She laid her palm against his cheek. "I've been involved since the first night I stepped in to stop you and Dick from coming to blows about whatever it was you birdbrains were disagreeing over."

He smiled, as, despite the emotions still storming through him, it was a nice memory.

"Speaking of being involved." He tugged her towards him. "I want to ask something of you."

"Anything, Tim," she responded with a smile. "Just ask it."

"You believe in me, see us as equals, and think of us as siblings."

"Of course."

"Then let me deal with Dick."

"No." She shook her head. "Tim-"

"I know that you trust me." He kept his tone light, knowing he was about to ask her to do the one that was difficult for her: remain neutral. Staying out of the squabbles he and the other members of the family tended to get into was not something Raya was known for. "I know you trust me to do the right thing, to continue to stand for what I have always stood for, even though I have taken on a persona that has a less than stellar reputation. I know you trust me to stand for you and Kai and Rosie the same way I would stand for the rest of the Bat-family or the Titans. You trust me enough for all that. I'm asking you to trust me with this, too."

"I trust you with all that," she told him as she framed his face, kissed his forehead. "And a whole lot more. I do love you, little bird." Her lips twitched. "Even though your moodiness has made you a lot less adorable and a whole lot harder to love... I do still love you. And I will agree to stand down, _if_ ," she stressed before he could interject, "you and Dick can refrain from coming to any additional blows."

As compromises went, it was the best he could expect.

"Thank you, Nix." He reached up to take her hands with his. "For everything."

"Always remember, Robin," she told him in a dead serious voice. "When the night is the darkest is when the Fenix rises. And she will _always_ be here to guide you home."

"Because even if Robin is a grown man who can take care of himself," he lightly joked, "it's still the Fenix's job to bring him home."

She laid her forehead against his. "Same as it will always be the duty of Robin…" he felt the curve of her lips against his skin, "be they past or present, to make sure the Fenix is kept from harm."

…

_Raya was there when I was at the darkest, lowest point of my life_ , he thought as he neatly refolded the note and slid it into his pants pocket. _She's always been there when I have needed her_. And just like when Dick had been Robin and needed a guiding light, the Fenix had been there. She brought him back from the dark abyss he climbed into in order to help guide Bruce home. She had been the calm inside the storm, the fire inside the rain, the mountain in front of the hurricane-like winds he stirred up while on his quest. _Now_? he decided as he picked up his folded clothes and carefully set them into the bag. _Now it's time for Robin to bring the Fenix home_.

_That_ , he thought as he zipped the bag closed. _Or I will die trying_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Route 41**

Rick turned into a driveway just as the sun cruised over the horizon and illuminated everything in its path in a golden glow. He stopped by a front gate that had clearly been driven through by one of the farm vehicles he could see abandoned on its side out in the middle of the road and read the sign that had been flung to one side when the gate had been burst through. _Jefferson Farms_ , it read. A frown knit his brow as he recalled what he knew about the place. All that his exhausted brain could tell him was that it had been a small dairy farm that had served a small percentage of the state. He scanned the fields but could see no signs of animal life. Less than a minute later he realized he saw no signs of life, period. A chill crept down his spine as that fact sunk home. Raya must have come to the same conclusion because she murmured his name in a voice fraught with tension.

"Can you feel it?" Her gaze swept the fields. "Something happened here. Something very bad."

"Yeah." His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah, I can feel it."

"The blood of the dead and the damned has soaked into the ground." Her sigh perfectly echoed his feelings of unease. "The violence of what happened here has left an imprint that will linger for centuries."

"I think we should move on." His nerves, already stretched taut, started to snap like Pop Rocks. "Something about this place doesn't feel right to me. There's-"

"Rick." Raya reached over to set a hand atop his on the steering wheel. "That's just the fear and exhaustion talking."

"No, that's the goddamned cop in me talking." He flinched at his harsh tone. He heard a soft warning growl and caught a glimpse of the tips of white ears twitching in the rearview mirror. It was a subtle reminder about there being a dog who guarded this family against whatever tried to threaten it in the back of the Bronco. "Shit, Ra-"

"Don't." She slid her fingers between his. Her thumb swept over his pulsating knuckles in a way that managed to settle and soothe. "It's the cop in you talking."

"Still," he insisted. "That was-"

"I was raised by a cop, remember?" Secrets swirled in the eyes that met his. The sort that set his every cop instinct on edge. They weren't screaming at him that this woman was someone not to be trusted. They just told him that there was more to Dr. Raya Kean than she was letting on. "The man I think of as a surrogate uncle is a cop," she continued by saying. "My best friend was a cop. I learned to trust their instincts without question. So if yours are screaming at you, telling you that we need to move on." She gave a delicate shrug of those gently sloping shoulders. "Then we move on."

"Still." He felt like an asshole for biting her head off. If it had been Lori who he had torn into like that, she would have told him how it was just another example of his inability to speak. "That was uncalled for." He offered what he hoped was an apologetic smile. "And I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for being human, Rick."

"Don't sugarcoat when I'm being an asshole."

"Oh, I won't," there was a spark of humor now in her tone. "Trust me."

Something told him that he might have wanted to avoid opening that kettle of worms.

"Me barking at you isn't going to solve anything."

"You're just edgy at the moment, Rick. We both are. However," her voice trailed off as an impish smile danced over her lips and added a sparkle to her eyes. "Since we are already here, maybe we should, at least, check things out. There's always a chance that your instincts are wound so tightly that they are seeing threats everywhere."

"No." Rick went to toss the Bronco in reverse. "I don't trust it."

"You're exhausted, Rick." Those long, graceful fingers slid over his. Subtle comfort and support. "You need to get some sleep."

"I'll be fine," he told her in a voice that was much more confident than he actually felt. "I can handle driving a bit longer in order to find somewhere that is safe for you and the kids."

He saw that mask, the one she'd been so carefully wearing from almost the moment they met, completely melt off her face. "You really are a sweet man, Rick Grimes," she murmured in that belly-curling tone of hers. "Your wife should count herself as one helluva lucky woman."

"Could you put that in writing for me?" he half-joked. "That way I can show it to her?"

She snorted a laugh. "You show a note from me to your wife and you'll have more than that chest wound to worry about."

He hummed a soft laugh. "You're probably right about that."

"Of course, I'm right," she lightly teased. "But seeing as we are speaking of that chest wound…" Her lips curved, warm with amusement and affection. "We really do need to find somewhere so I can take a look at it. I don't think I need to say how an infection at this point is the absolute last thing that you need."

_No, Raya Kean is not a beautiful woman_ , Rick thought again as he studied her. Beauty was simply too soft a word — and would likely only insult a woman who prided herself on her intelligence, anyway. Yet, he thought there was something to be said about the understated beauty of compassion. Even the flashiest of women paled in comparison to this one. _And that_ , Rick realized as she again squeezed his fingers, was because they lacked her good heart and kind soul.

He found his thoughts trailing back to one haunting fact: _She's not gonna make it long in this world if she doesn't adapt. She's not gonna be able to survive everything that this sick fucking world is going to try and throw at her . She needs someone there to help her, to protect her, to bear the worst of the storm for her and Rose and Christopher_.

Only silently did he acknowledge how what she needed most was a man who was just like him. Someone who would be there to support them, who would catch them if they fell, who would put them first. The remnants of what had once been quite an elegant farmhouse swelled into view, interrupting his musings. Nothing remained of the house except for blackened timbers and the fragments of one of the thick columns that had once graced the front porch.

Most of the foundation looked to still be intact, but it was buried under a mountain of ash and rubble that would take weeks to clear away. Figures scattered across the once manicured lawns in front of the hollowed out structure told the story of what had happened there. Rick pulled the Bronco to a stop and sat there looking at the devastation that had been wrought in absolute disbelief. _Is this what we have to do?_ He found himself wondering. _Is destroying every part of civilization the only way we will manage to survive this shit_? The thought was a completely unsettling one.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out around the lump in his throat. "It looks like a war went on here."

The fingers in his trembled. He stroked his thumb lightly over the back of her hand in an effort to comfort and soothe as he had been. She sent him a grateful smile before releasing a shuddering breath.

"It probably felt like a war to those living here."

A more in-depth look showed him other remains scattered in the fields. "Walkers were likely attracted by the smell of the farm animals."

"Mhm," she agreed. "Given the numbers I saw on the roads, it is probable that the people found themselves bombarded by a massive horde and had no choice but to set fire to the property in order to make their escape."

"Yeah," was about the only intelligent thing he could think to even say.

"Well, it looks like we won't be staying here…" A soft yip from the back of the Bronco greeted that statement. Raya glanced back at the dog who sat up as soon as the car came to a stop. "Hush you," she ordered lightly. "We don't need your doggie commentary."

"I'm assuming that whatever he said was sarcastic," Rick drawled. "Or unkind."

"If I were a betting woman, I'd place twenty bucks on that yip being the human equivalent of _ya think_." The corner of her lips tilted. "Or maybe _duh_. Either sound suitably sarcastic and totally like that dopey mutt."

A soft _chuff_ came from the back and indicated that Krypto wasn't finding them quite as amusing as they were finding themselves.

"My point, though, still stands," Raya said. "We clearly can't stay here."

"No." He heaved a sigh. "You're right, we can't stay here." He looked over at her. "Not sure we are going to find much better, though."

"Why don't I take over driving for a while then?" She suggested. "You need to get some-"

"No."

She muttered something under her breath that Rick couldn't make out, but which he suspected was not flattering. "Let's try and be reasonable here, shall we?"

"I said no." He shifted the Bronco in reverse. "That's me being reasonable."

Raya just harrumphed and sat back in her seat. "I think I am going to write a note to your wife and tell her about what an exasperating and stubborn man you are."

His lips kicked up at the corners. "She'd believe that."

"I can see why," she retorted with a small sniff as he pulled out onto the road. "And I'm the one nicknamed Mule?"

"You are a mule."

"Pot, meet kettle."

…

**Gotham, Park Row**

Negotiating the streets of Gotham would have been impossible in a car, jammed as they were with survivors. Huge piles of wood and other items - rebar, sheets of metal, boxes of what he assumed to be piled with tools and other building supplies had been pushed into the middle of the road. Gotham's answer to the threat invading it was to rally around each other and build walls to keep out what they could. It had been the same in Blüdhaven. He imagined it was the same response going on all across the globe.

A group of people blocked a direct route to where he wanted to go. Riding his motorcycle, though, Jason was able to weave and turn and managed to get to where he needed to go with the least amount of problems. It wasn't like anybody tried to stop him. If he had been wearing his red helmet, if he had been dressed like the Red Hood, somebody likely would have noticed and probably made to stop him. Plain ole Jason Todd? Hey, it's just Bruce Wayne's most problematic son out for a middle-of-the-apocalypse-joyride.

He braked in an alleyway between two medium-sized apartment buildings a block away from where a new barricade was being setup. He dismounted, grabbed the lowest rung of a fire escape ladder, and quickly pulled himself upward. He continued up to a fifth-floor landing. He checked to make sure nobody was watching before he tapped at the glass - two taps followed by three before another two - with the tip of his finger. Less than a second later he popped open the window and made his way down a dimly lit hallway that looked like a tornado had blown through it. He paused at a door at the end of the corridor and read the number: _367_.

He paused for a moment, sweeping his eyes left and right before he pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. There was a soft _click_ as the gears turned, and the hammer slid free, granting him access to the apartment. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, half expecting to find Tim either crashed out on the couch in his body armor or pouring over some case file the old man had given him.

The apartment was empty. A cursory inspection told him the place hadn't been lived in for months. A thick coating of dust was on everything and there were cobwebs thick as a cotton ball covering the window. _Did ya move back ta the Manor when the shit hit the fan, Timbo_? he silently asked his younger brother as he made his way into the kitchen. An inspection of the empty fridge and cupboards indicated he must have. _Alfie would have a fit if he could see what a mess this place was_ , he mused as he headed into the living room. A commotion outside had him crossing to the window.

_Undead or one of the sick freaks the undead haven't managed to get rid of?_

He looked out the window and stifled a curse. The Penguin and ten others who vaguely resembled some of his hired goons. Or what was left of them, anyway. People grabbed whatever was handy, some aimed guns, ready and able to defend themselves and their homes. Through the dirty glass, Jason could see a face he thought he recognized, the pasty skin beneath a layer of grime, the gore-coated hair framing a wild halo around a gruesomely scarred face...

...

Gordon saw the scarred face, too, and for a few seconds struggled to recognize the man. Then he saw a flash of green, and the curve of a Cheshire grin before the man raised the rifle he had at his side and aimed it at the group of survivors. Realizing the clown's intent, Gordon sprang into action. He lurched into the woman closest to him as the rifle fired, and the two toppled to the pavement, the slugs passing harmlessly over them before finding a home in the leg of one of the undead goons trailing after their former boss.

...

Jason could only watch as chaos ensued. He saw Gordon jump in front of a woman just as shots rang out. People raced to find cover, calling out to others who had tossed open doors and thrown up windows to see what was going on. A bullet went through the back of a young woman, sent her sprawling face-first. A pool of blood quickly formed beneath her, a terrible beacon Jason knew would send the undead into a mindless frenzy once they caught the scent. He went to open the window, his hand already going for the gun he wore in a holster on his hip when another slug slammed into the upper pane of the window, splintering the glass.

"Shit!" Jason yelled as he dove out of the way. Another bullet slammed into the window frame and covered him in dust and white wood shavings. "Pasty-faced son of a bitch!"

A third bullet shattered another window. Shards rained down on him as he rolled to his feet and sprinted from the apartment.

_Ya wanna play, Joker_? he thought as he headed for the fire escape. _We'll play_.

Only this time, Jason decided the game was gonna be for keeps.

_Batman ain't here to stop me this time, you son of a bitch._

No, the old man wasn't there to prevent him from doing what he should have done a long ass time ago. He dove out the window just as he heard the atonal cries of the damned rise up over the panic of the crowd.

...

**Atlanta, GA.**

Over eight hundred and seventy miles away, a young man in a baseball cap stood on the roof of an office building and watched as the streets below became filled with the infected. He could only watch in slack-jawed amazement as bodies stumbled out from around corners, poured out of buildings, and crawled from beneath mounds of debris. Glenn Rhee felt his stomach pitch violently as more and more infected made their way up the street.

_Okay, dumbass, how are you supposed to get back to the others with so many of them down there_? He didn't have a clue. The one gun he did have only had a couple of bullets in it. Can't afford to waste 'em. Not when there are so many of them down there. A thin bead of sweat slowly rolled down the side of his face, chilling his overheated flesh and causing a shiver of unease to creep down his spine.

He hadn't listened when Deputy Walsh said to wait until he could put a supply party together. _Now I'm in the shit knee-deep_. He only had himself to blame for his predicament. Just as he only had himself to get out of his current situation, too. Glenn adjusted the pack on his back and sprinted to the other side of the roof in order to see how many of the infected were on that side. Barely a handful. _I can outrun a small horde._

It was the bigger groups of walkers that always gave him a bit of a pause.

He was just about to shimmy down the ladder when a rumbling noise stopped him. Curious, he rose and went to the east side of the building. His eyes widened at the sight of a military tank rolling down the street. A handful of men in full military gear flanked the armored vehicle before fanning out with military-like precision and firing shorts bursts from the automatic rifles they carried. Glenn hadn't imagined they even had any military or police forces left after everything went to hell so fast. _So where did these guys come from_? he found himself wondering as he watched them mow down the first line of walkers. _And how much more are there_?

"Let's wipe these bastards out," a brown-haired man ordered from the hatch of the tank. "Then we can regroup with the others at the rendezvous point and get outta this hellhole."

"Yes, sir," the soldiers replied.

Glenn watched as they cut the number of infected in rapid succession. _Think now is as good a time as any for me to make my way out of here_ , he thought as he slowly crawled over to the other edge. A glance down at the street showed him how the earlier band of infected he had seen had disappeared. _Must have been attracted by the sound of gunfire_ , he reasoned as he slowly made his way down the fire escape. He dropped down to the ground and checked to make sure none of the infected were nearby. Seeing the coast was clear, he went to take off, but froze when he heard the pounding of boots upon the pavement.

_Shit, shit, shit_... he dove behind a dumpster right before a soldier entered the alley. The man swept his rifle left, right, before glancing up at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Any minute he expected the man to aim the rifle at him and order him to come out from behind the dumpster. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man turned and headed back the way he came.

"All clear," he called out to someone Glenn couldn't see. "Let's regroup with the others."

"Roger that, Sarge."

Glenn remained where he was for several long minutes. He felt the ground shake as the tank made its way up the road. It's now or never, he told himself. He counted to five before shoving out from behind the dumpster and hauling ass down the alley.

…

**Gotham, Park Row**

Within the blink of an eye, the street became a state of utter confusion. Shouts, screams, people wildly firing at the mob who descended upon the poor woman in the blink of an eye. Her shouts and pleas for rescue were muffled by the whines of the monsters who tore her apart in the amount of time it took to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

In the midst of the commotion, the man known by such names as Clown Prince of Crime, the Ace of Knaves, the Harlequin of Hate, went skipping towards where some of his men were waiting in an alleyway. With a hop, skip and a jump, he danced across the cobblestone, rejoicing in the anarchy he caused, as well as the idea that had come to him while he had been holed up in his cell at Arkham. Oh, yes, he finally figured out just how he was gonna bring his and his Dark Knight's little story to a rousing end.

Oh, it was the most brilliant scheme he had ever come up with!

_And just what is it that you intend to do_?

His lips spread into a wide grin that had the hair on the back of the necks of his men twitching. _Why I'm going to infect me and the big guy with the blood I stole from ole Johnny boy right before I put him outta my misery._

It was brilliant! Magnificent even! What more fitting end could there be for he and his beloved Knight? _Why we will be united in undeath as we are united in life_! His high, keening laugh echoed off the buildings, rocketing out over the air and sent chills down the spines of those who watched from the safety of their homes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Wayne Manor**

Late morning sunlight peeked through the heavy drapery covering the bedroom windows, chasing after the shadows giggling and dancing between the thin beams creeping across the wood floor. Alfred Pennyworth entered the master suite upon silent feet, bearing a carafe of freshly brewed coffee, some oatmeal he knew would go uneaten and some fruit that would be ignored. Besides the food items, the large serving tray also contained a fresh set of bandages and some other supplies he knew would be needed to treat whatever injuries his employer likely had managed to accrue while out the night before on his regular patrol of the city. He stopped just inside the doorway, surprised despite himself when he found the king-sized bed to be unoccupied.

"Master Bruce?"

There was no immediate reply from his employer. Not finding Bruce in bed at this hour happened about as frequently as a snowstorm in the middle of July. A further inspection of the room, however, revealed how the massive bed did not appear to have been slept in at any point. The covers were still stretched taut across the bed, the pillows were stacked neatly at the head of the bed, the bedspread neatly folded back at one corner. A turn of the head showed the butler that the plush bathrobe that Miss Rose had given her grandfather for his birthday hung neatly on the back of the closet door.

The suit he, himself, had laid out for his employer to wear the evening before was still laid across the foot of the bed, the polished black wingtips set neatly by the foot bench. A furtive glance into the bathroom showed that it, too, was in the same orderly shape as the rest of the bedroom. The fresh towels he'd set out the night before were still on the side of the tub. A check of the smoky walls of the shower stall revealed they were dry as a bone. Everything he saw indicated that Master Bruce had not been in either room at any point in the last twelve hours. The question on Alfred's mind at that moment was: _why_?

A frown puckered Alfred's brow as he calmly exited the master bedroom. Curious about where his employer might be, and secretly suspecting that the first conclusion he reached would most likely prove to be the correct one, Alfred explored the entire mansion, starting with the downstairs armory and library before making his way back upstairs to check the family room and nursery. There was no sign of Master Bruce being anywhere inside Wayne Manor. He found nothing to even suggest the man had stepped one foot out of the Batcave after having returned to it at some point after the sun crested the eastern horizon.

Alfred found himself wondering if the man's choice to remain in the caves below the manor was because he was immersing himself in work. Immersing himself in a case was how Bruce tended to respond to situations as catastrophic as the one they were currently dealing with. He could avoid how he felt about the members of his family being out there, facing any number of situations and unable to reach out to him for any sort of help. _Or for him to swoop in and rescue,_ he thought with a sigh. _Not_ , as he already well knew, _that Master Bruce will ever admit how his being unable to rescue his family should they find themselves in peril is what drives him to be smarter; stronger than the filth he hunts down_.

No, the last thing Bruce Wayne would ever admit to being was afraid of failing to be there to save one of his children from certain death. The death of Master Jason at the hands of the Joker had etched wounds in his employer that no amount of time would heal. It was that fear pushing him to find a solution to... _what_? What exactly was it that Master Bruce was trying to figure out? Alfred paused on the second-floor landing to consider what exactly to call this tragedy being visited upon the world.

Calling it an apocalypse seemed a bit inappropriate in his opinion. This was no biblical plague. The Seven Signs he knew to be most associated with the apocalypse had certainly, and thankfully, not occurred. There'd been no plagues, famines, and earthly disasters to precede the end of days. The sky hadn't turned into one boiling, bubbling ooze, and the oceans were not churning cesspools of blood. And there'd been no antichrist to emerge to fight the final battle between good and evil. _Well, there has been no Antichrist to rise as of yet_ , he amended with another soft sigh.

It wasn't like they were not prepared for such an event, though. Even he had learned that it was always a matter of time before something or _someone_ \- as was usually the case - would attack the world in some sort of diabolical way. Gotham City had, itself, been the stage for more near end of the world battles than Alfred cared to count, much less even remember. In his long-standing and rather jaded opinion, one stood a better chance of being blown up or shot than they did making it to their next birthday. Every day-week-month brought some fresh horror to the citizens of this northeastern city. Every second-minute-hour that one remained in Gotham became a new nightmare.

Most often, the faint hint of a high pitched cackle could be heard wafting upon the breeze, reminding the people of how it was the favored playground of a sociopath in royal purple merino and ivory silk. There were many others, some just as violent as the Joker, and some who were even more terrible, lurking in some dark corner or locked away in some impenetrable fortress just waiting for their moment to strike. _And any one of them could be behind this mess_ , Alfred realized as he headed towards the west wing of the mansion. Eerie words from Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ danced through his mind as he went: _'Blood will have blood_ '. They were, he realized as he checked each of the five bedrooms that once belonged to the children his employer had adopted as his own, the fitting way in which to describe this little bit of anarchy engulfing the world.

Alfred suspected blood was the very reason behind why Master Bruce had not left the Batcave. It was just a little over a hundred days since the first rumors of a disease reanimating corpses had surfaced, eighty since instances of the virus had been reported in London, Sydney, Tokyo, Toronto and sixty-one since it hit all major cities in the United States. Master Bruce, as well as the other members of the Justice League, had been working tirelessly with all of the other scientists instructed to try and figure out what was causing the dead to rise. Their efforts had all proven to be in vain. No cure had been discovered, no answer found and nothing any of them tried managed to stop the sequence of events from unfolding.

Bruce had finally prevailed upon the Flash to go to Atlanta, the Middle East, and Chicago with requests for Masters Richard, Jason, and Miss Raya to remain where they were until the threat from the poor, unfortunate souls who'd been infected with whatever this virus was had been contained. It had not been an easy request for the man to make. _As it shouldn't be an easy choice to make_ , he reasoned as he stood in the room that had served as a nursery for both Master Bruce and the two children he considered his grandchildren. A father asking his children to stay away from him should never be a simple request.

Telling them it was best they remain where they were, how they shouldn't come home because of the uncertainty, and admitting it was too dangerous for them in Gotham had been the hardest thing for Master Bruce to do. Alfred knew he had deliberated long hours over the matter, agonizing over the decision even though it was clear it was what was necessary at the time to do. The boundaries between his life as Batman and his role as a father was one Alfred knew Master Bruce had long struggled with. If anybody were to ask him about whether or not he thought Bruce Wayne saw himself as more of a father to his five very unique children than he did as a mentor, he'd answer yes without any reservations whatsoever. They were his children, first, and his partners in crimefighting, second.

There was nothing Bruce wouldn't do, no length he wouldn't go in order to keep his family from becoming the victims of whatever infestation was sweeping across the globe. Alfred had half-hoped that after the Flash delivered Master Bruce's message that either Master Richard or Miss Raya would have decided to ignore the directive and come home. The members of the Wayne family were always better when they stood as one unified unit. They tended to bring out the best, and the worst, he silently admitted, in each other. They made each other stronger, faster, and smarter. They were links that fit together to form one steel chain, the lights inside the darkness, and the anchors that kept each other grounded while the world was being tossed about by the hands of chaos.

That none of the elder children had decided to return to Gotham after receiving Bruce's orders -and he half-imagined Master Jason blowing into the Manor with the force of a category five hurricane after being ordered to stay away – surprised him. Alfred suspected that whatever was going on in the world was what was keeping them from returning home. I should go down and see if he has at least heard from any of them, he thought as he turned to walk into Master Bruce's private study. He passed the row of wooden bookcases lining the walls on the left side of the room, skirted an antique mahogany table upon which a vintage globe of the Earth rest, and approached the grand piano situated along the back of the room.

It was a replica of the one Bruce's mother played before her untimely death. The original had been destroyed in a house fire that left half the mansion a burned out shell. On a small table situated beside the piano contained a single item, a red abalone shell Master Dick had given to Master Bruce as a Father's Day present a few years ago. The shell was proudly displayed in a crystal case that his employer had fashioned himself. Alfred ran a finger over the shell's iridescently smooth inner surface and felt a poignant memory surface.

Master Richard had found the shell while the four of them were vacationing in California. It had been their first vacation together — the first of any kind that Master Bruce had taken without an injury or ulterior crime fighting motive being involved, and the first since Master Richard and Miss Raya had come to stay with them. _You settled into being a father_ , Alfred told his absent employer. _You allowed yourself to be happy — really happy. You allowed them to love you. To enjoy you. And you allowed yourself to love and enjoy them, too_.

Master Bruce had allowed hope to enter his dark and twisted world. He saw there was a light at the end of the tunnel, that he wasn't alone and had something worth fighting for. His anger and grief over the loss of his sainted parents had become lessened by the love Master Richard and Miss Raya gave him. Finally, his employer saw there was more to life than Batman and crime fighting. He started talking about the future, had a few more than passing relationships, almost got married at one point. _But then our little family got broken by that clown_.

Master Jason's murder at the hands of the Joker snapped the links that held the family together. _And it almost broke you_. Master Bruce might have snapped had Miss Raya not interceded and reminded him about the one rule that everyone in their family – Masters Jason and Damian to a lesser extent - obeyed. Alfred's eyes shifted away from the abalone shell to where a book rest upon the corner of the oak desk. A quote from that book had been the only thing to prevent Batman from crossing over into the realm of no return. Of all the antiques and heirlooms that were on display in this room and the caves below, this was the one that Alfred knew meant the most to his employer. It was meant to silently acknowledge what position Master Bruce held in the heart of the girl who had given the gift to him.

It was the same for the gold pocket watch that sat on the table beside Master Bruce's bed. Master Timothy had given him the watch as a reminder about there always being time for family. Alfred knew there was dozens of other things, inconsequential little items - report cards, school awards, certificates, and scraps of papers with faded words written upon them, broken weapons and photographs - he knew were stored in secret places throughout the Manor and the caves below. His employer might not be a man who looked it, and he'd deny it if he was ever asked about it, but he was a sentimental man. What appeared to be insignificant to some meant the world to Bruce Wayne.

Alfred finally turned back towards the piano. He glanced at one particular bookcase as he tapped a specific and rather difficult sequence of three notes on the black-and-white keys. In response, a secret door, built into the bookcase, swung outward and exposed the elevator hidden behind it. The concealed hinges of the invisible door never made a sound as they popped free. He personally made sure that they were cleaned and oiled every few days to ensure that they did not squeak, or get stuck. Secrecy was, after all, a matter of utmost importance in this household.

Alfred rode the elevator down; not sure what he would find once he reached the bottom. Master Bruce had been burning the midnight oil steadily for the last few weeks. That his mood would likely be foul and his words short was more than likely. No matter, he'd weathered through other such moods and come out largely unscathed. The elevator came to a stop with only the barest of sounds a few seconds later and Alfred stepped out into the vast caverns that made up the Batfamily's central base of operations.

He made his way down the staircase to the caves bottom floor, crossing a bridge below which the shallow, slow-moving river that served as the launching station for the Batboat, flowed. To the right of him was the storage area where a virtual array of specialized vehicles — land, sea, and air — were all housed. To the left was a fleet of regular vehicles — sports and luxury models mainly — that the family used when they were not out fighting crime. In front of him a montage of various trophies - the oversized Joker playing card, the large penny, that dinosaur that Master Bruce had insisted upon bringing home with him - stood proudly watching over a multitude of glass cases containing dozens of other memories collected during Batman's long years as a crime fighter.

Alfred walked up a small set of steps and headed beyond the personal gymnasium, the grottos where the smaller scaled library and armor stations were located and up a steel ramp to the main grotto where the medical bay, crime lab, and main computers were situated. He ascended another set of short steps and found the Wayne patriarch slouched, partially dressed still in Batman's black body armor, in front of the main computer station. A large, high-definition flat screen monitor dominated the wall in front of him. Seven linked Cray supercomputers hummed quietly, providing enough data storage and computing power in which to run a small country.

"I trust you have remembered that regular people still require sleep in order to function," Alfred announced as he poured coffee from the carafe he'd brought with him into a thermal mug. "Even if they are in the middle of a viral outbreak that is killing people by the thousands."

Bruce shifted his attention away from the computer monitor to glance over at the butler, an amused look on his grim face.

"I slept some, Alfred," he rumbled before turning back to the computer. "So you can quit your worrying."

"Forgive me, sir, but it is my job to worry."

"You worry enough for ten people."

"Someone must worry about you," the butler replied blandly. "Since you never seem inclined to do so."

"I have Raya to nag me about what I don't seem inclined to do." Bruce glanced over at the carafe. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"And some breakfast that I am sure you won't touch." Alfred handed the steaming mug to Bruce and sat in a nearby chair to join him. "Have you received any word from Masters Richard or Jason? From Miss Raya?"

"I got a brief message from Dick this morning telling me he is fine but can't leave Chicago. Not with how bad the outbreak is. Jason got a message to Tim after he reached Blüdhaven but I don't know if he is still there or not." Bruce heaved a sigh and Alfred saw his brow creased with concern. "And I have not heard anything from Raya beyond the message she sent back with the Flash."

Of all, it was the lack of a message from Miss Raya that Alfred knew was worrying his employer the most.

"If Miss Raya was in danger she would find a way to reach out to you," Alfred assured him gently. "Or to Commissioner Gordon."

"I know she would." Bruce lifted the mug and took a long swallow of the fragrant brew. "I know she would find a way to contact us if she found herself in trouble. Still-"

"Worrying is what parents do, Master Bruce. Especially in situations like this." Alfred smiled to soften his brusque tone. "You are the father to five extraordinary children."

"I know I am, Alfred." The ends of Bruce's long lips curved. "And grandfather to two even more remarkable grandchildren."

"You want them home so you can make sure they are protected-"

"No."

Short and to the point. Exactly how he had expected Bruce would reply. However, it was well beyond the time that the man faced facts and realized rescinding his order and bringing his children home was for the best.

"Master Bruce," he spoke clearly and calmly. "It is high time you realize that things in this world may get far worse before they will get remotely better."

"I already know that, Alfred." Bruce set aside his coffee. "That is why I didn't allow Tim to go down to Georgia when he asked."

Alfred suspected that Master Timothy had already decided to ignore Bruce's order about remaining here in Gotham. _It explains why the boy is not in his room_. Alfred kept that bit of information to himself. If Master Timothy had, indeed, decided to go and retrieve Miss Raya and the children from Georgia, well, he'd help him in whatever way that he could. _Even if it means not telling Master Bruce about his having snuck out of the manor at some point before he returned from his meeting with Misters Kent and Queen_. It wasn't the first time, and Alfred had accustomed himself long ago to the fact that it wouldn't be the last, that he had willfully kept whatever one of the children was up too from Master Bruce.

"Endure, sir," he told him. "You have done what you thought was the best for them. They will not fault you for that."

A grunt was his only acknowledgment of having been heard. For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, Bruce stirred. "I should have gone down there myself, Alfred. I should have brought her and Christopher and Rose home when the first rumors started."

"You did what you thought was right, Master Bruce."

"This outbreak is far worse than any of us imagined it to be. There's no end to it, no cure for it, no way to stop it." He glanced over at him. "There are going to be lots of deaths, Alfred. Innocents are going to be killed, and I can't do anything to stop it." Those shoulders sagged. "Batman can't protect them. Not this time."

"You have taught them how to protect themselves. They have the too-"

"Not for this," he informed the butler in a curt tone. "I never trained them for how to fight the undead." He set the untouched mug on the cabinet beside him. "Even Jason is going to be tested by the demands of this new world."

"They know the limits, Master Bruce."

"There are no limits now." Bruce turned burning eyes upon his longtime friend and companion. "They will be pushed into doing things that will go against everything I have taught them."

"Well, one thing I can guarantee you they will never do is to choose to take the life of the living, sir."

"They may have no choice in that, Alfred." He glanced back at the screen, his expression bleak. "There may come a day when they will have to do the unthinkable in order to survive."

"Then let us hope," Alfred said as he rose to pour himself a cup of coffee. "That that day never comes."


	17. Chapter 17

**Metropolis**

At 11:15 AM, Eastern Standard Time, the gates of hell were again thrown open and released a shambling mass of broken bodies in a variety of states and conditions upon his once majestic city. To the naked eye, the ramshackle figures looked like nothing more than a bunch of actors who'd been hired to dress up as zombies as part of the promotion for some new horror movie. His lip curled with distaste as he watched the ragtag figures shuffle along in a parody of human movement. As Lex Luthor stood at the window of his lavish high-rise office, he found himself reasoning that finding out that the creatures who were fanning out like a swarm of locust had all been part of a big publicity stunt, was much kinder than the truth. The truth, after all, could literally kill them.

Even from this high up, he could tell the creatures were all in various stages of death and decomposition. Their bodies rotted away a little bit more with every stumbling step they took. Pieces of dead skin and tissue dropped in their wake. Why the things were even still mobile was beyond his ability to comprehend. A thoughtful frown knit his brow as he considered studying the mindless mass. It was obvious the most primitive and basic of functions were reactivated at the time reanimation occurred, keeping the computer operating in a way that allowed for the creatures to perform in a limited capacity. However, why remained a mystery. And he dearly wanted to not only answer that why but use it to his advantage.

More of the undead poured out from the alley between LexCorp and AMAX Financial, joining the first group of walkers as they rolled down the street like a well-oiled machine. Above the increasing den of those who finally became aware of the threat coming towards them with mangled limbs outstretched, and gaping maws crawling with maggots and worms, Luthor could hear the monsters droning a chorus of hunger and bloodlust. The hair on his arms shivered with his horror and revulsion. Simmering just below his disquiet and disgust was an almost sick, morbid fascination with these abominations. That he found the beauty inside these beasts should have disturbed him, or at the very least it should have terrified him, but it didn't. There was something alluring about this disease and its macabre outcome. Now that his initial shock had worn off, he had the time to properly appreciate the technical aspects of this disease, and could properly appreciate the complex intricacies of it.

Seeing the physical and psychological toll that the virus had extracted from those infected had served to remind him of how humans were really nothing more than walking, talking, thinking and feeling computers. The body was little more than a soft gel casing that served to house and protect the intricate mainframe that operated, controlled and executed every one of their central processes: the brain. _William Gibson, Robert Stephenson and even Stephen King_ , he thought, a faint smirk screwing up the corner of his mouth, _must all be crowing with delight at seeing the elements of their life works coming so succulently to life_.

Screams and shouts echoed from below, drawing his attention. He glanced down and watched as all the little people scattered like roaches when the lights were turned on. It was hard for him to imagine how Metropolis, with its soaring skyscrapers, glittering lights, bustling city-life, music, and constant hustle and bustle had become the scene of a zombie apocalypse. This entire scene seemed like something more appropriate for a Hollywood movie. Cities like Gotham or Blüdhaven were the battlegrounds most suited for this war.

It wasn't like every city around the world wasn't being affected by the same hordes of undead, though. California and most of the middle of the country had fallen first, with Europe and parts of the Middle East and Asia following soon after. All forms of government had come together to decide how to handle this threat. Every agency known to man had been prevailed upon to do whatever was necessary to stop the outbreak before it consumed any more of the world. They had failed before even making a dent in the situation. Not even the Justice League, with all of their advanced technology and sophisticated team of scientists, had been able to get ahead of what was going on. There just had been no time to get out in front of this plague and stop it before it spread like wildfire across the planet.

The entire business square was now one solid wall of the walking damned. Every alley, building entrance, parking spot, garage opening, every square inch of space available was covered by their rotting, stinking masses. They bumped into each other, walked over each other, clawed at windows and banged upon doors while groaning their atonal song. Even with the windows firmly shut and the air filtration on he could still smell them, the acrid stench of pus, blood and rancid flesh imprinting itself upon his olfactory receptors. He saw a flash of blue and red streak around a building before diving down to scoop up a couple of children who found themselves surrounded by a handful of the hungry horde. Luthor hummed softly as he watched Superman shot off into the morning sky with the youngsters held securely in his arms. _If you are here in Metropolis_ , he silently said to his longtime rival, _does that mean Wayne has ventured from his cave and is on route to Georgia_?

Now _that_ had his attention.

The windows rattled as armored vehicles rumbled out to respond to the threat converging upon the city. Cops, army personnel, and civilians who'd willingly drafted themselves for service poured out of the vans and service vehicles, automatic rifles cradled in their arms and sun glinting off their body armor. Some of the creatures were knocked down as the small militia opened fire, brain matter and bits of decaying flesh painting swaths of brick, stone, and pavement. The rest of the mob took errant bullets in their lower extremities and chest cavities and kept right on walking, dragging their mangled, putrefied legs as if they were balls and chains. Others stumbled towards the military personnel firing at them with what remained of their internal organs hanging out from gaping holes carved in their abdominal cavities, paying as much attention to the wounds as a horse did a swarm of flies buzzing around its tail.

"Sir?" Luthor heard the gravelly voice of the head of his Applied Sciences Division say. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"I have heard everything you have said, Jenkins," he replied calmly; quietly. He glanced back at the white-haired scientist, his eyes glinting with a clear warning. "I have heard everything quite clearly, in fact."

_And I am not happy about what you have told me_ , he thought as he turned back to the gruesome scene going on below. It was not the news he'd been expecting to hear. When the first whispers reached him about people in California reanimating after dying from some sort of unknown disease he had been skeptical; doubtful even. It had seemed like something even too far-fetched for the cartoon circus world he lived in. It quickly became apparent this was not some newer, more complex and deadlier strain of the influenza A virus. This was not something airborne. It was not some variant of Anthrax. It was not caused by the consumption of tainted meat.

He also did not believe this was some sort of bio-terroristic attack that had been designed in order to wipe out the majority of one particular part of the population. _No_ , he thought as more of the infected went down in a barrage of bullets, _this is definitely not some sort of bio-eco-terrorist attack_. Whatever this was had erupted way too suddenly, had spread far too quickly and was attacking in way too many places at once for it to be something so simple as a bio-terroristic attack.

_Not even I am capable of launching an attack on this grand of a scale_ , he mused while he stared out over the sparkling city. He couldn't think of one particular terrorist organization - not even the League of Assassins - who was capable of enacting this elaborate an attack. No, whatever this submicroscopic infective agent was and whoever was behind its synthesis had turned what was amounting to be nothing more than pure and simple genocide into an art form. If it weren't for the fact that this infestation was threatening the welfare of a child he had been keeping careful tabs on ever since learning of his conception, he would take his leave and let this wretched world destroy itself. He couldn't abandon the planet, however. Not so long as Christopher Kent was out there and being threatened with exposure to whatever this… _virus_ was. No, until the boy was found and brought somewhere safe, he'd remain exactly where he was, keeping a vigilant watch, and preparing his men to act should the boy become endangered.

_If only Dr. Kean would have been reasonable and accepted my more than generous offer to set her and the boy up in one of my lavish estates_...

He cut the thought off before it could become anything more than his aggravated musings. He could understand, albeit reluctantly, why the boy's mother had adamantly refused to either take up residence in one of his houses, allow him to hire personal guards to see to the boy's protection, or agree to let him raise the boy, himself. Even though he had a vested interest in the boy, given how his father, Conner, had been a clone grafted with both his and Superman's DNA, _she_ was Christopher's biological mother and her claim upon the boy, the strongest.

Even if he'd been foolish enough to try and sue her for custody of the boy, he knew he would have lost. His vast wealth and social connections would not have aided him in getting custody of the boy. Not when she had the wealth, support and social influence of Bruce Wayne on her side. He'd have been laughed right out of any courtroom and made a mockery of in the papers had he been stupid enough to challenge Wayne for the boy. Requests, though, for her to allow his team of doctors to handle all her prenatal care had been ruthlessly rejected, as had his petitions for his host of scientists to perform tests on the boy to ensure his health and well-being.

Dr. Kean had let him know, in no certain terms, that she was not about to let her son become either a weapon he could use, a lab rat to be experimented upon, or the template he would use to create a mass army of men with superhuman abilities. He certainly had not helped improve his relationship with the woman when he orchestrated having her kidnapped from Wayne Manor while she had been pregnant with the boy. The woman had managed to escape, aided by the Quinn woman, of all people, and fled the country. Any and all attempts to locate her and the boy had proven to be futile. The woman had disappeared without a trace. If not for the endless vexation it had caused him, he'd have been suitably impressed with the feat. As it was…

_I should have pushed Wayne harder about the boy and his mother being brought here to Metropolis when rumors of this outbreak first started being discussed._

In the reflection of the glass, his eyes glowed with every ounce of his worry and fear for Christopher's safety. All the time he spent doing whatever was necessary to make sure that the boy made it to manhood would all be undone if he got scratched, bitten, or otherwise contaminated by what Jenkins called this "walker virus." All of the risks he had taken, all of the bribes he paid, all of the threats he eliminated, all of the markers he called in, all of it would turn out unnecessary if the boy ended up becoming one of these... _abominations_.

If only Wayne would have seen his way to reason and agreed with him about how important it was for them to get the boy somewhere safe; secure, he wouldn't be standing here in this agitated and overwrought state. His jaw clenched. If only the morons he had hired had managed to do their damn jobs in the first place, he would have the boy and his mother some place where these undead things could never touch them. _And that_? He thought as he continued staring out the windows at the world that was slowly turning into a new hell, annoyed him most of all.

"Are you certain about this?" he questioned the man seated so calmly in front of his desk. "Are you certain there's no known cure for this…" his lip curled. "Walker virus?"

"My team is quite positive there is no cure, Mr. Luthor." The middle-aged scientist shifted slightly in his chair, feeling more like a mouse being systematically stalked by the cat than a valued colleague. "There is no cure and no vaccine we can synthesize that will inoculate people against whatever this is." He ran a slightly shaky hand through a mop of unruly white hair. He could smell his own fear, tasted it upon his tongue. Angering a man who could be as ruthless as Lex Luthor was never a good idea. "We don't rightly know what this even is."

"And your team has found nothing that explains where this walker virus originated from? Or who is behind it?"

"We have not found anything other than rumors and the half-witted speculations of the usual bunch of conspiracy theorists."

Luthor half-turned to look at him. "And what is it that they are speculating?"

"That this walker virus was a plot by the United Nations to reduce the population and eliminate some of the dredges of society seems to be the most favored theory."

"I see." And he could see how that would be a favorite conjecture amongst them nut-cases. "Are there any potentially plausible reasons _you_ can share with me about what this is?"

More sounds were heard from outside. Artillery fire boomed in the distance, the reverberations shaking the thick glass until Jenkins thought it would shatter. Sirens blared. People shouted. The sounds of the conflict, which had been happening more and more these last few days, reminded the scientist about why he had wanted to get the hell out of the city for the safer, more secure sub-levels found beneath Cadmus Labs in Washington D.C. This world was no longer a place for a man of his intellect and capabilities. Not anymore, at least.

"There is one possible answer for what caused this walker virus," he managed to say once the din had died down. "However, and I must strongly stress this, it is nothing but speculation at this point. We have no way to confirm or deny the veracity of the claim. Or," he added with a sigh, "to substantiate this as being the outright answer."

"Tell me anyway," Luthor commanded in a velvety purr. "I wish to hear it."

Jenkins knew, without being told, what the consequences would be if he refused. An old fool he might be, but stupid and suicidal, he was not. "In February 1957, a new flu virus was identified in the Far East," he began. "Immunity to it was reported to be rare in people who were younger than sixty-five. A pandemic was predicted, with many fearing that it would be worse than the 1918 flu pandemic that killed over half a million United States citizens. To prepare for it, health officials closely monitored all cases of flu that were reported. Vaccine production started somewhere in late May of that year with the first batches becoming available by August."

Luthor regarded him silently for a moment. Jenkins likened it to a spider surveying his array of tasty morsels before settling upon the one that he'd gleefully devour. "Go on."

"In midsummer of 1957, the virus came to the United States with an isolated number of outbreaks. Affected people were treated and the virus stopped. Health officials thought the threat was over. However, what they didn't take into consideration was that people were still carriers in spite of having been given the vaccine. When children returned to school in Fall, they spread the flu virus in classrooms, brought it home to their families, drug it into their work environment."

"And you are telling me all this," Luthor rumbled as he folded his arms behind his back. "Why?"

"Because the pandemic was not as catastrophic as the 1918 pandemic for one very specific reason."

"That being?"

"The vaccine."

Luthor turned fully to him. "The vaccine?" He saw the scientist nod. "And what about a flu vaccine could cause people to reanimate once they have died?"

"It is not the vaccine, itself, that is believed to be causing people to come back to life," Jenkins clarified. "It is the serum that they added to the vaccine that might be causing them to come back from the brink of death."

"A serum?" He arched one brow. "What could be in this serum that it would prevent death?"

"There is nothing left of the original serum, I'm afraid, so we are unable to test out that particular theory." Jenkins took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "My best guess is the serum acts in a similar fashion as epinephrine, but instead of restarting the heart, it reactivates parts of the brain."

"That," Luthor extolled on one long breath, "would explain why shooting these creatures in the heart does nothing more than momentarily stun them."

"Indeed," Jenkins agreed. "The serum that was intended to prevent them from dying from something so simple as the flu has, in fact, cursed them to a much worse fate."

"And do you not find that to be strange?"

"Not particularly," Jenkins admitted honestly. "Our government has done many despicable things and kept them a secret from the public."

"You do not find it just a bit unusual how a government sanctioned vaccine, with a potentially known serum that was added to it in order to prevent death is what is ending the world as we know it?"

"I do find it rather unusual that a vaccine we created is the potential cause of this walker virus," Jenkins articulated in a low, gravelly voice. "However, as you, yourself, know, one can never predict how a vaccine will work or what physiological changes it might bring about. Darwin had a point about natural selection and the survival of the fittest genes."

"Quite so, Jenkins." A scream had Luthor turning back to the window. "I want you-"

He trailed off as two of the bumbling figures fell upon a police officer who tripped as he backed away. High-pitched shrieks rang out as they ripped into him — a man on his right flank, chewing through the faded blue polyester of his uniform into his thick buttocks, and straight through to the bone underneath; the other, a woman, ripping into his jugular and opening the vein. Blood spurted from his throat like a geyser, coating the figures tearing into him in red honey. Luthor counted the seconds to when the man was reduced to little more than a quivering mass of flesh, twitching, and gurgling, as the animals shared his intestines. Five. He swallowed his revulsion as he turned away.

"I want you to find Bradley Smith and have him hunt down what members of the Senate might have survived the outbreak."

Jenkins sat back in his seat and regarded his employer with rheumy eyes. "Is there a particular reason for why you want to find the remaining members of the Senate?"

"Somebody needs to pay for this outbreak."

Jenkins curled his long, gnarled fingers around his chairs armrests and regarded his employer silently for a moment. "Vengeance will do nothing but put you at risk of becoming infected with the virus."

"And do you propose that I stand by and do absolutely nothing?"

"Yes."

He turned to the white-haired man. "Is that what the members of the Justice League are doing? Nothing? I think not."

"What the members of the Justice League are doing is not of my concern." Jenkins knew he pressed his luck by speaking out as he was but someone needed to make his boss see reason. "What concerns me is your safety and the reputation of our labs."

"While I appreciate your concern," Luthor stated with a small sniff, "I am not going to remain here and do nothing. Not while the Kent boy is out there and unprotected."

"Christopher Kent will be watched over and protected by the members of his family. They will keep him safe."

"I am not willing to take any chances." Luthor glanced out the window. "Not while this virus continues to run unchecked."

"I understand the boy is important to you because of how he represents the possibility of future generations of Kryptonians to be born without another Prime incident," Jenkins spoke slowly, carefully. "However, this boy is the grandson of both Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. Neither will allow any harm to come to him."

"Neither shall I," Luthor purred. "So see that my best men are sent to Georgia to find Dr. Kean and the boy and have them escorted to Cadmus Labs."

"Is there anything else you would like me to do?" Jenkins asked as he pushed to his feet. "Any other requests you have?"

"Yes." Luthor took a seat at his desk. "I want you to send a message to Bruce Wayne. Tell him I wish to speak with him at his earliest convenience."

"Of course," Jenkin's replied before he turned and exited the office.


	18. Chapter 18

"So, what prompted you to leave the people you say you were with?"

Raya wrung out a rag she had been using to wipe away the dried blood and neatly set it aside before reaching for the ceramic bowl she had mixed a poultice of sea salt infused with some of the chamomile tea she washed the wound with. She scooped up a heaping helping of the grayish goop and gently applied it to the wound. Her eyes flicked to Rick's, the ghost of a smile hovering upon her lips.

"You've just been dying to ask me that, haven't you?"

"Yeah," he admitted with a slight grimace. "I have been."

"Why, though?" She searched his gaze, but there was nothing to suggest he'd detected she'd left out a few rather crucial pieces of information in her earlier explanations. She returned to her task, blowing at an errant lock of hair that kept escaping the messy bun she'd gathered the springy curls into before setting about treating his injury. "It's not like I wouldn't have told you about why we left Tarzan if you had asked me."

"I know." Rick hissed out a breath as his abraded flesh protested the slimy glob of whatever it was she was applying as a treatment. He remained as still as he could, though, because whatever the medicine was, it was helping and her touch was gentle. "I just didn't think the car was the right time or place for me to interrogate you about it."

That seemed to amuse her. "Are you grillin' me, Sheriff?"

His grin edged towards sheepish. "A bit, yes."

"Ever the cop," she teased as she smeared more of the glob onto his chest. "Questioning everyone and everything."

Only silently did she add, _which is why I will continue to modify what I do tell you. Can't have you putting together the pieces and figuring out what I'm hiding_. Raya stifled a sigh as the weight of all the half-truths and lies she'd been telling him settled heavily upon her shoulders. She hated lies and liars in equal proportions. She knew well the hurt and pain that both tended to cause. Both were like an alkaline that slowly melted away the walls upon which partnerships were built. They were nothing without trust. They wouldn't be able to fight together, to keep themselves and her children alive if they didn't believe that the other would have their back.

However, there was no other choice. As much as she felt she could trust Rick, as much as she considered him an ally in this war they were fighting, the consequences for telling him about who she was — about who her family was - far exceeded the pricks to her conscience. Revealing the truth could compromise and jeopardize the lives and well-beings of the people she cared about the most. When she entered the Batcave that firs time she became the protector of a secret that needed to be as closely guarded as Fort Knox and Area 51 combined: Batman's true identity.

She had never told anybody she knew Bruce Wayne was Batman, not even her uncle. Knowing, after all, was wrapped up in the importance of the fact. Rick didn't need to know that she belonged to a secret sect of superheroes who defended the world from all manners of threats. He didn't need to know that her adoptive father, best friend, cousin, both younger brothers and a handful of her closest friends were all costumed vigilantes. _The consequences of revealing that information are not worth my ego._ Rick let out a muffled curse, drawing her attention back to him. The sight of the pain etched upon his face, flickering in the depths of his eyes, knotted her stomach. She hated seeing anyone, anything, hurt.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I know the poultice stings." She laid her free hand against his cheek. "However, it will help prevent an infection that you don't need at this point."

"I know." He would have sawed off a finger before admitting that the wound was throbbing like a bad tooth. "Where did you learn about this sort of medicine?"

"From years of bandaging and tending to all the injuries that Bruce and the rest of my brood tended to rack up." That much, at least, was the truth. "Knocks to the noggins, broken bones, sprained ankles are all run of the mill injuries in my family."

"And where do gunshot wounds rank?"

"Pretty high up on the list, sadly," she admitted with a small smile. "Remember, Gotham is not your average American city." She scooped the last of the grayish mixture from the bowl and gently slathered it onto his chest. "We have all been shot or injured in one of the millions of skirmishes that have happened between law enforcement and the criminals that our city tends to attract."

"So you learned by necessity."

"Pretty much." She picked up the rag and wiped her hands. "Alfred, Bruce's butler," she explained when she saw his brow arch questioningly. "Alfred also knows quite a lot of healing practices." Again, it was mostly the truth. The only detail she left out was the one about Alfred's having spent a few years in British Intelligence. It wasn't imperative, at least in her opinion, that Rick knew that particular detail. She reached for the gauze pad she'd set on the table. "He taught many of his techniques and tricks to me." She flashed him another smile. "Probably in hopes that one of us kids would take his training and actually go into a field like medicine."

"You did go into the field of medicine," he pointed out as he held the gauze pad in place while she reached for the roll of medical tape. "You're a doctor in your own right."

"I am a doctor of psychology, you're right." She tore a strip of tape off the roll. "Many people don't feel that it deserves to be referred to as a field of medicine, much less science because it doesn't meet their criteria. Some have even lobbied for it to be referred to as a pseudo-science."

"I have a feeling your family is extremely proud of what you've achieved. Especially your fathers."

Her face softened as she thought of her two distinctively different parents. "Oh, I know they're proud of me."

"Has it ever struck you as odd about how you have two men that, for all intents and purposes you consider to be your fathers, but don't address either one as such?"

"Neither of them needed me to call them daddy."

"It never occurred to you to do so?" A pause was punctuated by muffled swearing as she applied the strip of tape and smoothed it into place. "You never once wanted to call them dad?"

"It would occur to me whenever they were in the middle of daddy-teaming me," she admitted with a rueful grin. "However, no, it never really occurred to me to call either of them Dad in anything but play."

He took the roll of tape and tore a strip that he passed to her. "I have a feeling that you ended up getting daddy-teamed quite a lot as you were growing up."

"You are clearly mistaking me for my best friend." She took the tape and fixed it to the bandage. "Dick was the one who routinely got himself in trouble."

"You, ma'am," he said mock-seriously. "Are no angel."

"Never claimed to be." She flashed him a saucy wink. "Would you like to hear out about how naughty an angel I can be?"

A kernel of heat pooled in his belly and spread outwards to warm the rest of his body. He was surprised that his skin didn't start to smoke with how hot his blood got. However, he knew it was a move on her part to deflect his attention away from what she didn't want him focusing on. He had started noticing the tactic more after they'd gotten settled into the small farmhouse he found a few miles up the road from Jefferson Farms. Whenever Raya wanted to toss him off-balance or distract him she would say something playfully outrageous or extremely suggestive. She did it as a means of keeping him from not probing deeper and figuring out the complicated puzzle he was starting to see her as.

"Need another piece of tape?" he managed in a voice that somehow remained steady despite the steam wanting to explode from his ears. "Or do you think that a hundred is enough?"

"One more, I think."

"A hundred-and-one it is," he kidded as he tore off another piece. "I'd hate to see how much tape you'd use for a broken leg."

"That would require ten rolls of tape, minimum." She secured the tape and sat back to admire her handiwork. "There. That should protect the wound and allow the poultice to do its job."

He angled his head to look at the snow white bandage. "And here I thought you'd make me a bandage out of one of your silk slips or something."

Her lips twitched. "I don't have a slip or else I would."

"Nightgowns work, too."

She cocked her head to the side and blinked her eyes wide. "Well, now, who says I normally wear anything to bed?"

Rick felt his mouth run dry as tantalizing little images happily assaulted what few brain cells he had operating at that moment. The woman was either trying to kill him or wanted to knock him off his game entirely. He had a feeling it was a combination of the two. He reached for his shirt but stopped when a streak of white-hot pain shot across his chest. "Son of a..."

"I'll take that, anyway." Her tone sounded suspiciously reproving. Rick shot her a dirty look but she merely plucked the shirt from his fingers. "Both of your shirts need a good washing before you can put them back on."

"You don't need to was-"

"It needs to be done and I don't mind doing it."

"You're not my wife."

"She's not your laundress."

Temper sizzled at her words. "I don't consider Lori to be my laundress."

"And I'm not your wife nor your laundress," she informed him, her tone just as heated as his. "I like to think I am your friend. And friends do little things like this for each other."

"Well," he grumbled. "I damn sure wouldn't wash your clothes for you."

"No offense here, Rick, but you don't remind me of a man who could even do a load of laundry."

He gave her a dirty look for that bit of sass. "My point still stands that I wouldn't do your laundry for you."

Raya studied Rick's face for a moment. It was set in hard, uncompromising lines that told her nothing. She tried to read his body language but found the language to be a distinctly foreign one. "Why are you protesting this so strenuously, Rick?" She finally asked. "What about me washing a couple of shirts bothers you so much?"

He wasn't rightly sure what his problem was with her washing the damn things. He just knew that it bothered him. "I don't know what my problem is," he finally confessed. "I just don't like the thought of you washing my shirts for me."

"They're just shirts," she pointed out. "I could understand if you were protesting about me giving you a sponge bath… that would be absolutely inappropriate. But shirts?" She shook her head. "I'm not exactly sure I understand what the problem is. Or why it's worth us having a fight about. Plenty of things we can argue about. Shirts? Not one I want to waste my time or energy on, personally."

It wasn't a fight worth having, she was right. He couldn't explain though why he was having such an adverse reaction to her laundering two bloodstained shirts. And she had a point, it wasn't like she was giving him a sponge bath. Unbidden, erotic images shot through his brain — desires and bodily demands that he had no right to even be thinking about.

"You never explained why you finally decided to head home to Gotham on your own," he said to distract himself from the waywardness of his thoughts. "What happened that prompted you to decide to make the trip?"

She settled on the floor beside him after gathering together all the medical supplies and setting them on a small end table. "Again," she teased. "Why did you wait all this time in order to ask me about why we left Tarzan?"

He breathed out a soft laugh. "Well, I had a feeling that there was a good story involved."

"It's not that good a story…"

"Oh, but I beg to disagree," he kidded. "I think that this has all the makings for a real page turner."

"You are going to be sooo disappointed then," she said with a roll of her eyes. "'Cause why we left Daryl is really quite boring."

He let out a soft curse as he made himself more comfortable on his makeshift bed. "Well, I figured it was something best left for when we were somewhere safe and stationary."

Raya cast a furtive look around their temporary home. They'd happened upon the small yellow house by accident. Across from a burned out field, it had sat there like a welcoming sunbeam at the edge of a tiny grove of stunted trees and wildly growing bushes. The shutters were bubblegum pink, the front door an odd shade of peacock blue trimmed in neon green, and the small strip of porch as bright as an orange.

There were huge, ceramic frogs with cheerfully playful faces and big, smart ass grins arranged in various poses all around the front of the house. The house sat back from the road on a neat square of lawn with trees tucking it into bits of shade when the hot sun beat down upon the ground. A cursory inspection of the property had revealed that the house had been abandoned, likely before the outbreak had reached its zenith, and so had been free of anything dead or undead. Furnishings were sparse. A small sofa that desperately needed re-covering, a couple of armchairs that needed re-cushioning, a couple of small tables and a table lamp that had somehow survived the 1970s.

There were two bedrooms at the back, one that had been converted into a small art studio from the looks of the paint splatters and two remaining easels resting against one wall. The bathroom was the size of a closet, the kitchen barely large enough for the trip of appliances it boasted. The small sunroom that had been attached to the side of the house had been damaged when an old truck had driven through one side and gotten stuck trying to exit from the other.

In all, it was a quaint and charming little country farmhouse, as far removed from the uniform and precise and stylishly sleek that she was accustomed to surrounding herself in. There were no acres of polished marble or seas of gleaming crystal or fields of silver that sparkled beneath the recessed lighting. Colors here were most definitely not like the pale ones her father had preferred. There were no vases of red roses to remind her…

She stopped herself. It was time to stop reliving the past. All the yesterday's continued to hound her because she couldn't firmly slam the door on them. _No more_ , she ordered as she ran a hand through her hair. _I can't continue to live in the past. Not if I want to ensure that Rose and Christopher will have a future_.

"Well, stationary we found," there was a speckle of humor in her voice. "But _safe_ is debatable."

"It has a roof that doesn't leak and four walls to keep out the wind and walkers."

"Okay." She bent a smile upon him. "You've got me there. We are warm and dry and have walls to keep out the monsters."

"Thought you'd see it my way." He let out a soft chuckle. "So, what happened?"

His stubborn refusal to let the question go reminded her so much of Bruce. He didn't tend to let things go, either. Not until he received a satisfactory explanation. _Even then_ , she mused, _Bruce will fixate upon the answer, trying to tear it apart and test whether or not it was the most logical response to whatever the question or situation was._ That keen intellect and indomitable will were the two greatest weapons in Batman's arsenal.

Where members of the Justice League possessed things like super speed, superhuman strength, special rings, or were descended from powerful gods, Bruce Wayne was nothing more than a mortal man who relied upon his own intellect and know-how in order to take down his enemies. She had a feeling that Rick Grimes was going to prove to be just as inflexible as Bruce. _He isn't a slouch in the intelligence department, either_. She would definitely be wise to tread lightly around him.

"The camp we had taken up refuge in got overrun with the undead and we got separated in the melee."

"Didn't you have walls up to keep them out?"

"Yes." She reached out a hand and ran it over Krypto's glossy fur. "Walkers don't remember that things like walls or doors or fences are designed to keep them out, though. They just continue to press against those things until they give and grant them access to what they want."

"How did you manage to get away?"

"Some of it was simple luck mixed with a healthy desire to continue breathing," she admitted without shame or any degree of humiliation. "Most of it, though, was because of a moody, surly-tempered man with a crossbow. He and his brother got us out of there with our skins still attached to our bones."

"Tarzan, I assume?" A wry grin tugged at his lips. "Sounds like the two of you hit it off."

"Oh, famously," she jested. "We're getting married just as soon as this Lil' ole apocalypse is over." She glanced over when he laughed. "What? Don't think he and I are a match made in hell?"

"I think you tried to bully him as you bully me and he put you in your place."

"I do not bully you," she huffed. "I merely point out what you are too stubborn to admit is right."

"You bully and badger until you get your way."

"Do not."

He nudged her in the side. "You do and you know it."

"I do not bully and badger." Krypto perked up his ears and let out a soft _woof_. Raya cocked her head to look at him. "He doesn't need you helping him."

The great big dog merely rolled over onto his back, baseball paws waving in the air and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. It was a playful routine and one that normally amused Raya. However, tonight it annoyed her. She desperately wanted to sleep but knew if she went to sleep now she'd feel like shit when she woke up. Rick sensed her agitated mood and reached over to lay a warm and comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever has you wound tighter than a two-dollar watch?"

She reached up to lay her hand over his. "I wish I could." She made a face. "But I can't."

"Can't," he paused. "Or won't?"

He said it in such a no-nonsense, don't-bother-to-deny-it tone that Raya wasn't sure if she was irritated, amused, or impressed. She sat there, fingers lightly covering his, as she contemplated her uneasy state.

"I can't tell you what has me wound so tight," she finally told him. "Trust is I don't rightly know what is bothering me."

He could have pressed her for an answer, they both knew it. He didn't, however.

"When was the last time that you got some sleep? Real sleep," he clarified before she could speak the protest or denial he saw forming upon those pale lips. "Not just those few minutes of rest you allow yourself every now and again."

She harrumphed, but finally grumbled, "Might have been a few days ago." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Why?"

"Because I imagine that what you're feeling is a combination of exhaustion, fear, and anxiety."

"Maybe," she allowed. "I'll be okay, though."

"C'mon," he cajoled. "Lay down."

"No-"

"You gotta sleep."

"Rick-"

"Not up for debate." He placed a pillow on the floor, patted it. "You need to get some sleep before you crash. So lay down."

"I need to keep-"

"I'll keep watch," he said. "You sleep."

"Rick-"

"I said it's not up for debate."

"I am so going to write a note to your wife and tell her about how annoying and obnoxious a man you are."

"She'd believe it." He patted the pillow again. "Now, lay down."

Suddenly weary of it all, she did as he ordered, and found she gave herself up to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. And as she slept, she dreamed…


	19. Chapter 19

**Residential community outside Blue Ridge, GA**

_Day 59 of the outbreak (late afternoon)_

The days passed in an almost daze. For almost a week there had been absolutely no sign of the infected roaming around. Even the small groups of survivors who went out for quick supply runs did not encounter the large masses of infected that there had been in the early days of the outbreak. Daryl told her that the nearby towns and small cities all seemed to be creeper free, something that concerned Raya more than soothed her.

People slowly started to relax, to believe that the worst of the situation was over. Many started assuming that they would be able to resume their lives just as soon as the government got off its ass and fixed the mess they caused. Then a few isolated incidents happened that slowly started to dispel the spell the makeshift community was falling under. The biggest blow to that cocoon came in the early hours of what started off as a relatively cool Monday morning.

Old man Whittaker walked into his house after taking his turn at patrol to find his grandson, Johnny gnawing on the rib bones of what had once been his grandmother, June. It took the twelve-year-old less than thirty seconds to abandon the carcass he had ripped into with his tiny teeth and go after the much fresher fare his grandfather was. John Whittaker Sr. didn't have time to run, much less mount any sort of attack against the boy turned animal. His agonized screams roused everybody from their beds just shortly before the sun crested the horizon. Johnny got dispatched with a crossbow bolt fired at point blank range while old man Whittaker died from the injuries he sustained in his grandson's attack.

Things looked like they had gone back to normal until a group of kids, Christopher among them, came across the quivering, rotting figure of old man Whittaker as he crawled out of the grave they dug for him and his family to rest in. His mangled face stared up at the children as they poked at him with sharp sticks and garden tools, his expression locked in perpetual agony and his slack mouth moving in a guttural groan of never-ending hunger. What once had been a man was now nothing but a double amputee who desperately clawed at the dirt with decomposing digits that peeled like a banana away from what bones remained.

Raya stepped outside the steel gate of the community and put him out of his misery with an arrow through his remaining eye socket. That it was becoming easier for her to kill what was, in essence, still a human being was not lost upon her. However, it was only a distant concern at that moment. Right now she needed to educate some kids about what the dangers of poking at the new predators rising up to take control of the world were.

"What's wrong with you kids?" She demanded as she retrieved her arrow. "Don't you know better than to mess with a walker?"

"Aw." One boy, a copper-skinned youth named Javier scoffed. "What's the worst he coulda done ta us?"

"He could have torn your stomach or throat open with his teeth for one thing," she informed him curtly. "Or bitten your hand, ankle or knee."

Javier just waved her off. "I woulda stabbed him in the eye before he woulda bitten me."

One of the other boys, an older one she vaguely recalled hearing addressed as _Tomas_ , snickered before pointing at Javier and saying, "Vato, you woulda ran home to your moms if'n old man Whittaker tried grabbin' at'chu."

"So would you!" Javier snapped, his swarthy face suffused with righteous anger and teenage indignation. "Don'chu even try and deny it, homes."

"Hey," all semblance of play fled Tomas' face. "Forget you, ese."

"Enough, both of you," Raya told them in a firm voice. The last thing she needed to deal with was a brawl between two moody, displaced, hormonal and angst-ridden teenagers. "You kids get on back to your homes now." All but three of the children scattered. "And don't let me catch you poking at another of these undead things with anything or I'll make sure to tell your folks about it!"

She looked then at the three who hadn't run when she showed up to investigate what they were doing. Christopher stood there with his head lowered, shuffling his feet back and forth while the other two, both younger than her son, just glared at her belligerently.

"You ain't our Ma," the older one, a grimy-faced boy she remembered being called Ed, said, his tone sullen. "Ain't gotta be listenin' to you none."

Raya fixed the boy with her sternest look. "And if your mother heard you sassing me like that she would blister your hide."

Ed glared at her. Then he puffed out his chest in a clear attempt to try and intimidate her. If not for the very serious danger that the kids had placed themselves in by leaving the gated community, she'd have been amused. As it was, she had been raised by Bruce Wayne, the Master at Intimidation. She was impervious to this boy's tactics. Ed gave up when he realized his attempts were having no effect on her. He turned to the long-faced girl with dirty blonde hair and hazel blue eyes standing beside him.

"C'mon, Emma Lou," he muttered. "Let's get on home afore Doc Kean tattles on us to ma."

"Tattletale," the girl sneered at Raya before she trudged off after her brother. Raya watched them go, her heart heavy at there being such false bravado in kids so young. Finally, she turned towards her son. A blistering retort formed on her lips, but he spoke before she could tan his hide for being where he knew he didn't belong.

"I can explain!" He held his hands up in front of him, palms facing her in a type of self-defense act that almost made her smile in amusement. _Almost_. "I swear!"

"Okay, Christopher." She slung her bow on her back. "I'm listening."

"I didn't know it was one of them, okay?" When she remained silent he fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "I just thought Ed had found another dog." He lifted eyes that were a burning, blistering shade of green to hers. "I wanted to rescue it before he could torture it as he did that cat a few days ago."

Her heart wept at what she saw written upon his face. Conner had had that same soft spot for animals their son did. Just like Christopher, Conner was forever bringing home anything he felt was in need of a home. Before his untimely death, they had three cats, Krypto, a wolf Conner had perversely named _Wolf_ , six rabbits, an assortment of mice, rats, hamsters and an angelfish he named _Aqualad_ just to get Garth's goat.

She finally had told him that he either would have to stop bringing home every animal he found or find them a bigger place to live. Otherwise, they would have a zoo in their small apartment. Not that she had really minded all that much. His compassionate and giving nature had been one of the things she had loved most about Conner Kent. It was something she loved about their son, too. Back then, a houseful of children and animals running all over the place had sounded like the perfect life to her. Some days, she still thought it sounded aces. Until bands of undead showed up to remind her of how useless it was to dream of such silly things.

Her heart hitched with a twinge of that all too familiar ache as she looked at her son — really looked at him. As much as she tried to deny it, as much as she tried to ignore it, and as much as she tried to convince herself that she didn't see it, the physical resemblance between Christopher and his father was a strong one. The angry flush darkening Christopher's skin from gold to bronze, the fury that ripped through his eyes like a Cat-5 hurricane and bunched his hands into fists that trembled as they hung at his sides were an almost mirror image of how Conner looked whenever he came across an animal or person being abused.

"Kai-El," she spoke his Kryptonian name in a tone only he could hear. "I know you only meant to try and stop an animal from being horribly and cruelly treated by a very disturbed boy-"

"Call him what he is, Mom," Christopher interjected. "A miniature Joker in the making."

As much as she tried, she couldn't stop her lips from twitching with amusement. "If Ed begins cackling and wearing cheap purple merino and white silk then we will know we have problems."

"He's a sociopath in a torn and stained Avengers t-shirt and dungarees. That's bad enough."

"He's too youn-" she started to say but stopped herself. She had never skirted the truth or hedged the details. Not even when telling her children something she knew would only cause them an unbelievable amount of pain. That was how James Gordon had been with her and her cousin, Barbara. No matter how bad the truth had been, no matter that telling them the truth might have hurt them immensely, he'd felt that telling them a lie was a far, far worse offense. "You're right." She heaved a sigh. "Ed has all the signs of being a sociopath. And he's only going to get worse the older he gets."

"That's if he manages to survive this mess." He glanced back at the gray blob decaying in the moist dirt. In the rising shadows, she could see the fear and the horror upon his face, but was powerless to say or do anything that would take away the ugly truth of the reality they now were facing. "That's if any of us can manage to survive this mess," he muttered under his breath.

"We'll survive," she assured him with more confidence than she actually felt. "All we have to do is get home to Gotham and we will be okay."

"You're positive that Grandpas' Jim and Bruce and Uncles' Dick, Tim and Jason will be there?" He paused to take a breath. "You're positive that Aunt Barb will be there?"

_Are you positive they're alive_? Was what he really wanted to ask her. He didn't though because he feared to jinx the answer. _Oh, baby_ , she thought as she stepped to him and framed his face with her hands. _Do you really think your grandfathers' and uncles' are dead_? _Do you really think that this world is not something that they won't be prepared for_?

"They're there, Kai," she promised as she stroked her thumb over his cheek. "They're there and just waiting for us to find our way home to them."

Eyes that mirrored her own stared back at her from a face that belonged to a ghost. She saw a myriad of emotions — anger, grief, and fear the strongest of them, all simmering together in one huge pile of doubt. Her always optimistic son was losing his ability to always find the light inside the darkness. _He's already started to forget about what it is to have hope_.

"They're all there, baby," she repeated, more firmly this time. "And they're waiting for us to come home."

It took several seconds before he nodded. "Okay," was all he said.

Not like there was anything more he could say. He knew as well as she that all they had was hope. Far as she was concerned, that was enough. She set her free hand on his other cheek before leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead.

"C'mon," she said as he fussed under his breath about her kissing him in public. "Let's go help Rose finish packing. Daryl wants to leave just as soon as we can get Major Davidson to give us the go ahead."

"Okay."

Together, they walked the short distance back to where Rose waited for them on the front porch of the house they were sharing with Daryl and his older brother, Merle. Night started to fall a short time later and brought a respite from the overwhelming heat of the day. It allowed the inhabitants of the camp time to organize, finish chores they had not finished that morning, stow supplies, prepare for patrols, or go around and gossip with members of their groups or cliques.

The families — nine of them in all - didn't overly shoulder much of the weight in the decision-making department. Despite them having more at risk and more of a reason for wanting to ensure the survival of the group than the dozen military men that essentially were in charge, it just made sense to leave the hard decisions up to those accustomed to making those sorts of decisions on a regular basis. Every decision was taken to Major Donal Davidson—the group's de facto leader, before being executed.

Every morning, he held meetings inside a mesh tent large enough to host a church revival in, assigning duties with ease and keeping everybody apprised of what was going on outside the makeshift gates they'd erected in order to keep the never-ending drove of undead out. Each day, he strutted along the perimeter of the camp with his pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, his fingers linked behind his back and his balding head glistening beneath the hot sun.

He had taken a shine to her after she had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that she knew what it was they were dealing with and didn't need him protecting her or hers. With winter quickly approaching, and a world of the undead droning their hunger all around them, Raya found herself starting to wonder about the competence of a so-called figurehead that seemed more concerned about making woo-woo with her than readying their small camp for the dark days that were coming.

"Howdy, Doc," a man named Atwater Anson called out from the curb. "I just heard from Jedediah Trawler that there was a spot of trouble earlier with some of the kids. Everythin' a'ight?"

Raya smiled at the elderly man. "Just some kids poking at the reanimated corpse of old man Whittaker."

Anson just shook his head. "Damn fool kids," he muttered. "Ain't got the sense to use the brains the good lord gave 'em."

She couldn't agree with him more. However, she also was taking one thing into consideration that he wasn't. "They just don't understand what's going on, Mr. Anson."

He sniffed as he pulled a pouch of tobacco from his left pocket. "Ain't anybody's fault but their parents there." He nipped a good sized portion of the tobacco from the pouch and stuck it in his mouth before adding, "Up to them to teach their young'uns 'bout what's going on."

Again, Raya couldn't disagree. "Hopefully, some of these people will finally wake up and realize that this is not just some hoax."

Anson grunted. "Don't get your hopes up 'bout that happenin'," he advised in a low rasp. "People 'round these parts can be mighty funny about what they wanna believe and all."

"I know," she said with a sigh. "Believe me, I know."

A commotion in the middle of the unofficial camp square caught both their attentions. They turned to see a small crowd had gathered around Jensen Davis and his younger brother, Jared. It wasn't like Raya had to wonder about what, or who, she silently corrected, the brouhaha was over. Jared had been shacking up with Jensen's wife, Darlene, whenever the man went out hunting for fresh game. Everybody, including his own pregnant wife, Loren knew what was going on between the two. The entire semblance of peace and order they had managed to establish hung by a very short thread. One small thing like a cheating husband and wife was all it could take to light the fuse on what was a potential powder keg.

"Well, think I'll be moseying on over to the square and see if I can't be a help in defusin' the bomb tickin' between Jared and Jensen." Anson spat a stream of black liquid into the azaleas lining the front walk. "You keep those young'uns of yours close tonight," he suggested before he turned away. "They don't need to get caught up in the problems of a bunch of damn fools."

"I will, Mr. Anson," she promised as she watched him amble off in the direction of the crowd.

He wasn't even halfway up the street when there was the crack of gunfire, louder than a cannon blast that shattered the night. The sound of it rocked her auditory senses and triggered a memory buried that was always a few inches below her subconscious. Her fingers white knuckled the porch railing as she was tossed backward to the night gunfire had erupted inside the palatial home she had shared with her mother and father as a child.

Even now the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder, scorched flesh, and fresh blood caused her to gag. Her knees threatened to buckle and her breath started coming in short, ice-edged bursts that made her chest and throat burn. A soft, "nooo" was ripped from her as a vase of roses —always red roses — rolled across her visual field. She heard the shattering of glass as it smashed upon the cool marble, the sound louder than the second bark of the gun. Helplessly trapped inside this waking nightmare, she could only watch as a sanguineous hand slowly surrounded one fragile bloom in its wet grasp, forever tainting its beauty with its wretched truth.

Raya stared down at the pale figure in her arms, heard again those last shuddering breaths before her mother was gone—just gone. All around her, the dark shadow of Mnemosyne lurked, subtly intimidating, threatening, her vaporous fingers saturating her with renewed grief, fresh horror, and with a fear that was the primitive and mindless terror of an animal. Mnemosyne swiveled her head towards her, her eyes gleaming like twin sunbursts inside a face as cold as a Grecian statue and bared long, vicious teeth in a smile that taunted, tempted. Then she crooked one elegant finger in silent beckoning. Raya felt herself about to topple headfirst against the wicked goddess when horrified screams broke through the haze trying to engulf her and snapped her back to reality.

She looked up in time to see Jensen Davis make a grab for his brother with thick fingers dripping with fresh gore and mud. Jared shoved him back with a horrified yelp. Even from this distance, she could see Jensen's eyes were a feral shade of yellow, his skin a waxy shade of gray and his gait that stumbling one of the newly turned. Her response was an automatic and ingrained one: _defend and protect_. Her years working alongside Batman and the Gotham City Police Department to save the innocent people of their city from the monsters had trained her how to respond to this sort of crisis. The shift from Raya Kean into her alter-ego was so fluid and natural that she barely even recognized the transition.

"Someone shoot his ass!" Jared screamed as he reached for the hunting knife he finally seemed to remember he had in a sheath on his belt.

Jensen grabbed hold of his brother, his groan a guttural one. He tried to latch onto his brother's throat, but Jared beat him back and stumbled away. People scattered as they finally realized the danger, screaming their terror and calling for their erstwhile leader to come and do something. Jensen recovered and again went after Jared, who tripped over a root sticking up from the ground and fell backward. The knife went sailing out of his hand as he hit the pavement, skidding over to clatter uselessly against the tire of an abandoned bicycle.

"Somebody help me!" He squealed like a pig, the sound doing nothing more than send his brother into an even more frenzied state of hunger. "Sumbitch—please!"

Raya flew down the porch steps, her heart beating a hard tattoo against her rib-cage. Her every instinct cried out for her to do something, anything. She plunged into the screaming crowd, felt the tide of their fear roll over her, trying to suck her under with greedy fingers. An elbow slammed into her right side, stealing her breath, stunning her momentarily. In a burst of fury, she fought her way through the fog, through the boiling waves of desperation and fear to where Anson was staring at the scene unfolding in front of him with disbelief written all over his craggy face.

"Get out of here, Mr. Anson!" She shouted as she reached for her bow. "Go on!"

Raya went to notch an arrow, but a blonde woman was racing straight towards her, almost sobbing with her terror. She would have been knocked down to the ground by her—Amelia Stone, she recalled suddenly, had she not jumped up onto the hood of an old station wagon in order to get out of the woman's way.

"Somebody, help him!"

Someone shouted as Jensen descended upon Jared with hunger-induced madness dripping from his mouth. High-pitched shrieks erupted as he tore into his brother's flesh, ripping into his left leg, chewing through the soiled and faded denim, into his thick thigh, and straight through to open the femoral artery, slurping at the blood that spouted like a geyser. Raya heard boots running up the street in her direction as she took aim.

"Stand down, Doctor Kean," she heard Major Davidson command. "We will handle this."

"Too late, Major," she replied as she let the arrow fly. "Sorry."


	20. Chapter 20

**Residential community outside Blue Ridge, GA**

_Day 59 still..._

An archer's hands needed to be steady, calm, and above all else, sure. Their grip on their bow needed to be firm, but relaxed. Their fingers needed to be slack; featherlike as they circled the string. Their mind needed to be clear of any and all thoughts, their arms loose and supple, their body as pliable as the wood their bow had been crafted from. An archer needed to be confident as they notched an arrow, pulled back that string, and took aim at their target. An archer could never second-guess their intention. They could not doubt, never wonder, or question if they were making the wrong choice.

Most archers never found themselves aiming at what had once, until just a very short amount of time ago, at least, been a living, breathing, fully rational-minded human being. Most archers did not find themselves watching as what appeared to be a human being ripped into another human being. Most archers were never forced into putting down a monster masquerading as a man. That line of thought was enough to break her control, shatter her concentration and shred the balance she had managed to find. She couldn't continue fooling herself into thinking that mercy killing was acceptable. It wasn't. It went against everything she stood for – everything her family stood for. 'Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit,' she heard Bruce whisper next to her right ear. 'We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.'

Raya felt her blood pumping beneath her skin as those words washed over her, flooded into her. Her heart pounded with a mixture of loathing and disgust. Her belly churned with a greasy mixture of dread and grief. A bead of sweat dripped down the back of her neck, chilling her.

"I know this goes against everything you taught us," she murmured to her absent mentor and parent. "But what else can we do? How do we help them? How do we help protect the innocent from them? What other way is there?"

The voice that replied, however, did not belong to Bruce Wayne.

'You battle yourself needlessly,' she heard Diana Prince say by her left ear. 'You adhere to a standard you know does not apply to this time or place. Adapt. Become the warrior I taught you to be. Be the woman I showed you how to be.'

"How?" The word came out as a desperate plea. "How do I become what I need to be when everything I am rebels at what I am doing?"

'You do what must be done. And you do it because it is what is right, what is needed, what is just. That is what I taught you _.'_

The words, spoken by the only woman she ever allowed herself to completely trust, to ever get close to her, that she acknowledged as family, washed over her, into her. A cool calmness settled over her, quieting the nerves doing jumping jacks and stilling the nausea swirling like a whirlpool in her belly.

'Relax your body,' Diana ordered. 'Empty your mind of everything. Focus.'

To give herself a better shot she climbed into the bed of an old truck. The feel of the hard metal against her knees grounded her in the moment.

'Now, breathe _…'_

She drew in a breath, held it as she notched an arrow. The muscles in her arm pulsed, rippled with a power that cruised along her arm and poured into the hand holding the bow. Her fingers trembled, once, then became as steady as a sword in stone. She pulled back the string so that her index finger came to rest just under her chin, the string tickling her nose and lips.

'On three _…'_

Boots pounded the pavement as she slowly breathed out. Voices shouted. She heard the audible clicks as assault rifles were readied for use.

'One…'

"Stand down, Dr. Kean," she heard Major Davidson command in his gruff baritone. "My men and I will handle this."

She ignored him as she took aim at Jensen.

'Two…'

"Dr. Kean, I gave you a direct order…"

Raya blocked out everything save for Diana's soothing voice. She relaxed her grip on the string, allowed her fingers to slowly slip backward.

_'_ Three…'

The arrow shot from the bow with a small _schwack_ , soaring through the air, straight and true. Raya watched as it entered Jensen's right temple and exited less than a second later from the left in a swatch of blackish ooze and grayish brain matter. Time seemed to hold its breath as it waited for whatever would happen next. Jensen slowly slumped across his brother's lifeless body, his mouth still full of entrails and his face forever coated in Jared's blood. Bile gushed into Raya's throat and would have exploded from her mouth if she hadn't clamped her teeth tight. A high-pitched shriek split the air as Darlene Davis saw what little remained of her husband and former lover. Raya felt sorry for the woman. Just because she had been having an affair with Jensen did not mean she had stopped loving her husband.

Love, as she herself had discovered, did not die. It just evolved, either becoming stronger with time and tending or withering to a spark because people no longer cared to tend to it. _I might despise the man Slade has become_ , she mused as she ran a shaky hand over her clammy face, _but that doesn't mean a part of me doesn't still love him._ Especially since one of the parts they shared was their daughter. _Even if Slade tends to forget about that whenever he comes slithering out of whatever hole he has been hiding in_.

"Matthews, Andrews." She saw Major Davidson signal to the two men standing beside him out of the corner of her eye. "Take care of the bodies. Make sure that they won't be coming back."

"Yes, sir," both men replied in unison.

If not for Matthews having coppery-toned skin and hair as rich and glossy as her own, she'd have thought the two twins with how they responded with such precision and harmony. A kernel of laughter bubbled its way up her throat but a sheer force of will kept it from being released. Didn't need to make them think she had lost what little remained of her sanity by starting to laugh at nothing.

"Is there anything you want me and the rest of the boys to do, Major?" One of the other men, a Sergeant she vaguely recalled hearing called Ham, asked.

"Have everyone gather in the square," Davidson told him. "We need to address what happened and alleviate any concerns that the people might have."

"Yes, sir."

Raya slung her bow on her back and made to climb down from the bed of the truck, figuring her part in this macabre dance at an end, but Davidson halted her.

"Just a moment, Dr. Kean. I'd like a word."

_I am sure you want more than a word, Major,_ Raya thought as she slowly turned to face the man. In the rapidly waning sunlight, she could see his rheumy eyes were as hard and cold as stone.

"When I give you the order to stand down," he said quietly, calmly. "I expect you to obey it."

On anybody else, those words would have caused instant contrition, stammered apologies and promises to never disobey him again. On her? It did nothing more than to increase her amusement. She had endured more than her share of _Batman_ reprimands. She had received more than one direct reminder about following his orders or else there would be hell to pay. Bruce made a suitably intimidating force to be reckoned with when he was in or out of that infamous costume. In compare, Davidson reminded her of nothing more than a petulant child who hadn't gotten his way.

"The people of this camp need to see that they can take care of themselves when a situation like this occurs, Major." She kept her tone light, respectful, but with just enough steel to indicate she would not be cowed. Not by him or anybody else. "Especially since you and your men might not always be around to handle these outbreaks for them."

"If and when that day comes," Davidson began but Raya cut him off.

"A good leader would be preparing these people for the war they are going to be fighting. He wouldn't be feeding them pretty words and packaged bullshit."

Raya could tell by the flood of color that suffused his face that he didn't like her criticizing his leadership. Not that she cared one bit about how pissed off the man got. Fact was fact. The people in this camp needed to be shown that they could defend themselves from the undead. They needed to know they could take care of their own. _They have to become strong if they want to survive_.

"That may be so," the bark in his undertone told her how tight a control he was keeping over his temper. "But when I expressly tell you to stand down, I expect you to do it."

Raya went to tell Davidson what he could do with his orders when a gravelly voice interrupted her before she could. "Aw, don't go gettin' your panties in a bunch, Major."

Raya swallowed a groan as she turned to stare at the tall blonde man ambling towards them with a beer bottle she could tell was only a quarter full. Merle was in one of his moods. She could see it in the gleam of his eyes, the drunken flush on his cheeks. In that moment, annoyance turned to anxiousness. She side-eyed Davidson, gauging his reaction to Merle's presence. By the tightening of his jaw, it was clear the major wasn't pleased to see him. Not that Raya could rightly blame him. She wasn't thrilled to see Daryl's older brother. There just wasn't anything much she could do about it. Not without creating a whole other set of problems that they didn't need at that moment.

"You don't need to involve yourself in this matter, Mr. Dixon," Davidson said stiffly. "I have handled the situation as I deemed appropriate."

"Hell, I ain't sayin' you ain't handled the situation right." Merle lifted the bottle in his hand and took a long swallow. "Fact is that Prissy here should be at home and worryin' about fixin' me and my brother some vittles rather than out here pretendin' to be Annie Oakley."

He was baiting her with that comment. He knew it and Raya knew it. She just refused to fall for it this time. _The one who will get hurt if I reply is Daryl_ , she reminded herself over and over. She couldn't deny, however, that she would love nothing more than to knock the smirk off Merle's face.

"'Sides," Merle continued once he realized she wasn't going to rise to his taunt. "All Prissy here did was save you and your boys some bullets. I'm thinkin' you should be showing her some appreciation for her consideration rather than busting her chops about it."

Davidson squared his shoulders before saying, "My orders are to be obeyed without qualm or question, Mr. Dixon. I am the commanding officer of this camp. What I say, goes."

"Yeah, I get you the commanding officer of this bunch of pansy-asses, niggers, chinks, and ball lickers." A small, tight smile graced Merle's lips. "We ain't in the army, though, and ole Merle here ain't your bitch."

"Merle..." Raya issued the warning in a low tone, but Merle cut her a look that silenced whatever else she might have said.

"I ain't fallin' into line all 'cause he ordered me, too." His icy gaze shifted back to the major's. "He can kiss my lily-white ass, first."

Raya could feel the tension in the square mounting with every breath she took. Anxiety pooled in her belly, kicked in her blood and skipped along every nerve not already strung taut as a guitar string. She heard the murmurings of the men standing just a few feet away and knew a fight could break out at any second between them and Merle. _And when it does_ , she thought, her gaze swinging to the house they were staying in, _Daryl will come out to back up his brother_. And would, she knew, take a helluva beating for it.

It was the sort of man Daryl was. No matter how dysfunctional his relationship with his brother was, no matter he put him down mercilessly and treated him like shit almost all of the time, he would still jump into the middle of whatever fracas Merle had gotten himself into. They were blood. And blood, as he'd told her after the first time she threatened to knock Merle on his ass if he didn't leave Daryl alone, stuck with blood, no matter what. Same as her family, it was Them versus the World. And it had been that way for as long as both men had been alive.

Merle, much like Daryl, had been forced to do whatever was necessary in order to survive the abuse that had run rampant in the Dixon household. Given Merle's reaction to Davidson's command, it was clear he had been in the military at some point in time. _Vietnam_? She found herself wondering as she debated how to get Merle to leave as quietly as possible. It was likely given his age. It also made separating him and Davidson before the confrontation brewing erupted all the more necessary. The task was easier said than done. While Merle might not be as obstinate as Bruce Wayne, he was not an easy man to manipulate. Convincing him to leave would take every ounce of patience and skill she had. With a soft sigh, Raya turned towards the Major, her mouth already opening to issue an apology for what Merle had said, but the Major beat her to the punch.

"I suggest," he said with barely restrained fury, "that you take Dr. Kean and return to your home, Mr. Dixon. And I would advise that you stay there for the night if you want to continue staying in this camp."

Raya half-imagined Merle would tell the florid-faced man where to go and what to do with himself, but he surprised her when he merely said, "Sure thing..." while a smirk screwed up one corner of his mouth. " _Sir_."

Davidson's face could have been cast from stone. A muscle ticking in his jaw was the only clue as to how restrained he was being at that moment. Raya expected him to order Merle arrested and locked in the storehouse for his insolent, insubordinate attitude. She made to get between the two men and calm the situation down any way she could, but Merle reached up and hooked her by the waistband of her jeans. Raya opened her mouth, ready to blister his hide for touching her in such an inappropriate way but the words turned into a startled gasp when she felt herself being yanked forward.

She toppled forward, too surprised by the audacious move to be able to right herself. Less than a second later she found herself staring at the ground upside down. Hot indignation filled her at her undignified position. However, she was wise enough to know that anger wasn't the way to handle the situation. It would only rile him up, make him more difficult to deal with, and accomplish exactly what she was trying to avoid: a confrontation. Merle turned and started strolling towards their house.

"You just like startin' shit, don'tcha, sugar tits?"

Raya counted to a hundred, in Japanese _and_ Latin, before she felt calm enough to try speaking to the odious man.

"Put me down, Merle."

She had learned the knack of commanding at Bruce's hands; her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of demand. Merle heard them, she knew he had. Slung over his shoulder like she was, she couldn't see his face, but she felt his rumble of laughter. She imagined his lips were spread in that shit-eating grin she especially hated. It almost always proceeded him saying something sexist, racist or otherwise inflammatory.

"Ask me nicely, Prissy."

Raya was about to _nicely_ tell him where he could go and how he could do it when the front door of their house slammed open and Christopher, followed by Krypto, who let out one deep, warning growl, came barreling out onto the porch.

"Put my mom down, Mr. Dixon!" Christopher ordered in a tone eerily reminiscent of his father and grandfather. If not for the fact she was being carted around like a sack of grain she would have been suitably impressed. And more than a mite proud. Raya angled her head around to look at her fuming son. "I said put her down! _Now_!"

"Now, lookie here, son," Merle warned in a low, dark rasp. "Don't you go and be givin' ole Merle here no orders. I ain't-"

"...gonna do shit," Daryl said as he joined Christopher and the still growling Krypto on the porch. "Now do as the kid said and put Mule down."

_Putting her down_ didn't necessarily mean Merle had to _set_ her down gently. That realization flashed through Raya's mind as Merle chuckled once, darkly. She opened her mouth to warn him about what would happen if he dropped her, but he unceremoniously dumped her onto the cold, hard ground before she could get the words out.

"Mom!" Christopher shot off the porch, Krypto barely an inch behind him. He cupped a hand around her elbow and helped her up to her feet. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Kai." She reached up to cup his cheek in her palm. "He didn't hurt me."

"Hell's the matter with you, bro?" Daryl snapped at his brother. "Why you gotta drop her as if she was a sack of flour or something? Why couldn't you just set her down?"

"Well, hell, little brother," there was a speckle of wry amusement in Merle's tone, upon his face. "You said to put her down." His lips spread into a toothy grin. "That's what I done did."

"I didn't say to drop her like that." His voice dropped an octave, alerting Raya to the rise of a reckless and dangerous mood. "Why you gotta be such a dick?"

"What?" Merle strolled over to where he'd set the rest of the six-pack of beer he had somehow acquired on the hood of his truck. "Prissy just landed in the position all women belong when they ain't in the kitchen."

"Hey!" Christopher swung to face Merle, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Don't talk about my mom like that!"

"I done told you to watch that mouth, boy." Merle pointed a beer bottle at the simmering teen. "Don't make me remind you again."

"Shut up, Merle."

Any and all joviality fled Merle's face at Daryl's order. He cracked the beer and tossed the cap away before slowly turning to look at his younger brother.

"Why don't you make me, little brother?"

Raya made to try and diffuse the situation, but Krypto let out one low, threatening growl, stopping her. She watched as the dog gathered himself, intending to leap at Merle, his teeth barred and every muscle rippling with his intent to defend and protect, but Daryl stopped him with one barked command.

"Sit!"

Krypto's butt dropped to the ground before the final syllable even left Daryl's lips. Raya's eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline. _Not even Clark can get him to obey a command that fast_ , she thought with more than a little amazement. Course, Clark Kent didn't quite issue orders in the same way Daryl Dixon did. _Even Bruce would approve of how Daryl commands a situation without having to try_.

"You best keep that mutt off'a me," Merle told his brother sullenly. "Or else I'll-"

"... else you'll what?" Daryl sniffed and fixed his brother with a look that could have fried an egg. "Ain't gonna do shit." He paused before muttering, "Jackass," beneath his breath.

A dangerous light entered Merle's eyes. "You givin' me lip, son?"

Raya, as well as Daryl, knew what that look meant. Any remotely threatening gesture or flippant remark and Merle would start swinging. If it was just her out here with the volatile man, she'd push him into losing his temper just so she could teach him a lesson. He wouldn't go after her, though. He'd go after Daryl. It was what had happened after she goaded Merle the last time. Every move she and Daryl made needed to be executed with extreme caution. Every word that was said needed to be carefully considered. Without taking his eyes off his brother, Daryl nudged the still snarling super-dog towards Christopher.

"You and Krypto go on inside and help your sister finish dinner."

"What about you and mom?" There was a small shiver of fear coating Christopher's voice. "Are you two coming?"

"Your mom and I will be in after a while."

Her son, intuitively knowing something was brewing between the brothers protested with a low, "N-" but Daryl cut him off before he could finish the denial.

"Go on." Velvet steel coated every syllable. "Git."

Christopher sent an imploring look at his mother. "Mom-"

"You heard Daryl." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "Go on inside with Krypto. He and I will be in shortly."

Christopher's face showed how her not calling Daryl by the nickname she had given him had its desired effect. His eyes blinked wide and his mouth formed a perfect circle. His gaze shifted to Merle, who was busy swallowing down his beer and then over to Daryl, who was clutching the porch railing with fingers still coated in whatever he'd snared in one of his traps. Finally, he looked back at her, his eyes silently pleading with her to do something that would stop the impending clash from happening. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile before subtly indicating for him to go on inside the house.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll go and help Rose finish up dinner." He slowly backed towards the door, his eyes never leaving hers. "Come on, Krypto."

Krypto responded with one more deep growl before he followed Christopher inside the house.


	21. Chapter 21

**Day 59...**

Her butt had barely smacked the ground when Kai was already kneeling beside her. His superhuman speed was something she strongly cautioned him against using around people who didn't know about his Kryptonian heritage. She didn't remind him about it this time. The way she figured it, Daryl and Merle both would just assume adrenaline made him move that fast.

"Are you okay?" He cupped a gentle hand around her elbow and pulled her up to her feet as Krypto danced between them, alternating between whining plaintively and growling menacingly at the man leaning negligently against the front end of his pickup. "Mr. Dixon didn't hurt you, did he?"

The worry and concern in her son's voice, on his face, touched that _mom_ side of her. Yes, she realized as her heart melted, her son was a good, kind boy on the cusp of becoming one hell of a man. The sort of man his father and grandfathers and uncles all were. _Conner_ , she thought as she stared into Kai's questioning eyes. _You would be so proud of our son. He's growing up to be the man that Jonathan Kent raised you and Clark to be. The man you would have raised him to be had my choices been different._ She pushed the dark memories to the back of her mind when she heard Kai speak again.

"Mom?"

"I'm fine, baby." She reached up to smooth her hand over his cheek. Then she stepped closer and dropped her voice an octave in order to teasingly remind him about how "It takes a lot more to hurt your ole mom than droppin' her on her backside."

"You aren't old." A faint smile curved Kai's lips at her jest. " _Yet_."

Raya merely hummed a laugh and reached down to soothe the huge white dog still raising a ruckus. "I'm fine, Krypto. You can hush up now."

"Hell's the matter with you?" Daryl snapped at his brother. "Why you gotta drop her as if she was just some sack of flour or somethin'? Why couldn't you just set her down nicely?"

"Well, hell, little brother," there was a speckle of wry amusement in Merle's tone, upon his face. "You said to put her ass down." His lips spread into a wide, toothy grin. "And that's what I done did."

"I didn't say drop her." Daryl's small, verbal explosion alerted Raya to the rise of a reckless and dangerous mood. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that his face could have been carved from stone. "Why you gotta be such a dick?"

"What?" Merle strolled over to where he'd set the rest of the six-pack of beer he had somehow acquired on the hood of his truck. "Miss Priss just landed in the position all women belong when they ain't in the kitchen." He grabbed another beer before adding, "Hell, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, little brother?"

"Hey!" Christopher swung around to face Merle, face flushing with indignation, body vibrating with fury, and his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Don't you talk about my mom like that!"

"I done told you to watch that mouth, boy." Merle pointed the beer bottle he held at the simmering teen. "Don't make me remind you again."

Raya's hands trembled. More, they wanted to strike. Sheer will was the only thing that kept them at her side.

"Do not threaten my son, again."

"What you gonna do if'n I do, girly?"

"Do it again." She kept her voice low, spoke slowly while looking directly in Merle's eyes. "And I promise that you will find yourself in the position that men like _you_ belong: beneath my boot."

"You sure like givin' orders, don'cha, sugar-"

"Shut up, Merle."

Any and all joviality fled Merle's face at Daryl's caustic order. He cracked the beer and tossed the cap away before slowly turning to look at his younger brother.

"Why don't you make me, little brother?"

Realizing that the situation had officially entered the waters she had been trying to avoid, Raya made to try and diffuse the situation, but Krypto let out one low, threatening growl, stopping her. She watched as the dog gathered himself, intending to leap at Merle, his teeth barred and every muscle rippling with his intent to defend and protect, but Daryl stopped him with one barked command.

"Sit!"

Krypto's butt dropped to the ground before the final syllable even left Daryl's lips. Raya's eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline. _Not even Clark can get that dopey mutt to obey a command quite that fast_ , she thought with more than a little amazement. Course, Clark Kent didn't have quite the knack for issuing orders that Daryl Dixon did. _Even Bruce would approve of how Daryl is able to command a situation without having to try_.

"You best keep that goddamn mutt off'a me," Merle said sullenly. "Or else I'll-"

"... else you'll what?" Daryl sniffed and fixed his brother with a look that could have fried an egg. "Ain't gonna do shit." He paused before muttering, "Jackass," beneath his breath.

A dangerous light entered Merle's eyes, flickered across his face. "You givin' me lip, son?"

Raya, as well as Daryl, knew what that look meant. Any remotely threatening gesture or flippant remark and Merle would start swinging at whoever was closest to him. If it was just her out here with the volatile man, she'd push him into losing his temper just so she could teach him the lesson he so richly deserved. He wouldn't go after her, though. Or after Kai. He'd go after Daryl. It was what had happened after she goaded Merle into a fight the last time. Every move she and Daryl made needed to be executed with extreme caution. Every word they now said needed to be carefully considered. Without taking his eyes off his brother, Daryl spoke to the still simmering Christopher.

"You and the mutt go on inside and help your sister with finishin' up supper."

"What about you and mom?" Some of the anger was smothered by a rising amount of worry and fear. "Are you two coming in?"

"Your mom and I will be in after a bit." Those electric eyes shifted for a moment to him. "Go on now and do what I said."

Her son, intuitively knowing something was brewing between the brothers protested with a low, "N-" but Daryl cut him off before he could finish the denial forming upon his lips.

"Go on I said." Velvet steel coated every syllable. "Git."

Christopher sent an imploring look at his mother. "Mom-"

"You heard Daryl." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "Go on inside with Krypto now. He and I will be in shortly."

She intentionally chose to no call Daryl by the nickname she had given him so that Kai would clue in about how serious the situation had gotten. A frown puckered her son's brow as he visibly contemplated her words. Then his eyes blinked wide and his mouth formed a perfect circle as he figured out what she was trying to tell him. _Good boy_ , she silently praised. _You're learning to pick up on the subtle clues that I give you to figure out what I am saying when I am unable to directly say it_. That her method had its desired effect helped to settle and soothe the nerves doing the hokey-pokey beneath her skin.

She watched as Kai's gaze shifted to Merle, who was busy chugging down his beer while watching them and then over to Daryl, who was clutching the porch railing with fingers still coated in whatever he had managed to snare in one of the traps he had set out earlier that morning. Finally, he looked back at her, his eyes silently pleading with her to do something that would stop the impending clash from happening. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile before subtly indicating for him to go on inside the house.

"Okay," he finally said in a reserved voice. "I'll go and help Rose finish up dinner." He slowly backed up the porch steps, his eyes never leaving hers. "Come on, Krypto. You heard Mom and Mr. Dixon."

Krypto, ever the stalwart defender and protector of his family, responded with one more deep growl before he turned to follow Christopher into the house. Raya didn't release the breath she hadn't realized she was holding until the front door firmly shut behind the two. Even then, she did not completely relax. Not when the very atmosphere that was surrounding them had undergone a drastic change in the span of just a few seconds. Something was about to happen.

Raya could feel the weight of expectation as an electrical current sizzling along the rapidly cooling air. She could hear it in the hushed footsteps of the nameless creature slowly creeping its way across the dry earth. She could smell it in the sweet, cloying scent of lilies that drifted by on the slight breeze blowing. She could feel its fetid, foul breath stirred the hair at the back of her neck and sent a chill screaming down her spine. What exactly was coming, she didn't know. Whatever it was that was coming, it was something dark and dangerous and far more deadly than anything they had dealt with up to that point in time.

"You go on inside with the kid and mutt," she heard Daryl telling her in one low rasp. "I wanna talk with my brother 'bout some shit before we eat."

Raya had been raised in a family with four and a half men. She knew _'I wanna talk with my brother 'bout some shit before we eat'_ was really code for _'we gonna have us some busted lips and split knuckles after we brawl in the front yard_.' There had been plenty of other times when she had to treat the ripped lips and torn knuckles her moody brood had acquired after brawling with one another across Gotham's rooftops. Not that she planned on allowing Merle and Daryl to roll around in the dirt while beating the holy hell out of each other. No, they both could just relieve themselves of that notion right quick.

"No, I think I will wait for yo-" she started to say but Daryl cut her off.

"I said go on inside the house." There was an edge to his voice, and on his face that told Raya that he was as aware as she was of the change in atmosphere. And he was just as disturbed by it. "Now go on and do what I said without flappin' them gums of yours anymore about it."

If not that she suspected that some of his unease was being caused by his brother's drunken and volatile mood she would have reminded him about ordering her around like that. She bit her tongue, however, swallowed the reprimand, and reminded her independent side that sending her inside was Daryl's way of protecting her from his brother. _Even though he knows I can clean Merle's clock without even trying_ , she thought as she stepped up beside him on the porch.

Daryl would always put himself between her and whatever, or whoever could potentially cause her harm. In the forty-nine days they had been together she had learned a lot about who the man beneath the muscle shirts was. Daryl might be hard as nails, repressed and scarred emotionally - as well as physically - surly-tempered and moody as all hell, but there was a good heart that beat within his chest. The few times where he had been cruel verbally to her had brought about a well of shame and regret so deep she thought he would drown in the emotional sludge.

Unlike Merle, who played grab ass whenever he saw an opportunity, Daryl never put his hands on her. Not without her consent or there being another purpose - usually undead related - behind why he had. Beaten down to the point he saw himself as a nothing and a nobody, almost broken by his less-than-stellar upbringing and damaged emotionally he might be, there was still a good man inside Daryl Dixon. One who was worth fighting with and for. _If the moody-ass thinks I am going to simply allow him to take whatever abuse his brother seems inclined to dish out, well, he is in for one huge ass surprise_.

"Come inside with me," she entreated softly. "Please."

She felt his sigh blow across her cheek and heard him mumble something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like numbers. Then he said, his tone abrupt, but still leaning towards cool and calm, "Didn't I tell you to go in-"

"Please, Daryl." She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice to a whisper only he - and Kai and Krypto - could hear. "Getting into a fight with your brother is not worth the set of bruises you'll end up with or the torn and bloody knuckles I will have to sit on you in order to treat."

Why she even thought that argument would fly, she didn't know. It never worked on the male members of her family. No way in hell was it going to work on this man.

"Yeah, well, he don't need to be droppin' you like he did." He didn't turn his head but she saw him cut his eyes in her direction. "Or talkin' all that shit he been talkin'."

"I fall." Her fingers cruised lightly over the back of his. Subtly pleading and silently soothing. "I rise."

The muscle tick along his jawline was the only outward sign about her words even registering. However, they didn't accomplish what she intended. Not when he insisted a second later about how "He gotta learn he can't be puttin' his hands on you. Or," he added in a hard, emotionally charged whisper, "on them kids."

She already suspected that to be the burr stuck beneath his saddle. Abusing a woman or child tended to operate as the same trigger for Daryl that it did for her and the members of her family. For the two of them, it was something personal. Abuse was a shared experience, something they both had lived through and bore the scars from. Whereas she had Bruce - and Diana Prince, Clark Kent, Jim Gordon and Alfred - to help her temper her rage and channel her thirst for justice into constructive endeavors like hunting down those who abused others, Daryl had had nobody but himself. He hadn't been given the same chances to turn the negatives into positives that she had. His outlet had been to either continue the cycle of abuse by causing harm to himself or hunting down Bambi, Thumper and the rest of their little forest friends. Raya opened her mouth to remind him about how she could defend herself and her kids but a short, humorless laugh stilled the words.

"Always the sweet one, my baby brother."

His words did not come out slurred, not yet, at least. What they did carry was a hint of bitterness so sharp that it cracked like a whip. Raya turned her head and watched as Merle downed the rest of his beer before reaching for another. Things were gonna get ugly and fast unless she figured out a way to stop it from happening. Raya glanced at Daryl. _He looks_ , she thought, _all calm and cool and collected on the outside_. Ah, but that was just on the outside. One only had to look at his eyes to know he was anything but cool and calm. Raya found herself lost, scorched by the naked emotions she glimpsed within Daryl's burning gaze. His eyes burned with a restless intensity, with a familiar emptiness she recognized as loneliness, with a tidal wave of pain he'd vehemently deny feeling, with an endless parade of self-doubts and hatred she understood all too well.

"Let's just go inside," she implored again. "Let's just leave him to drink himself into another stupor and pass out in whatever hole he finds himself. _Please_."

"Well, now, don't you say please so sweet it just melts on the tongue, plum bottom." Merle laughed, and she heard the drunken spite in it. "You whisper _please_ before or after you wet my brother's piece with that purty lil mouth of yours?"

"I told you to shut it, Merle."

Daryl didn't growl it. No, he just sounded sick of it all. Not that Raya could blame him. She had only been forced to put up with Merle for the past month. She couldn't fathom having to deal with him and his bullshit for over four decades.

"Yeah, man, I bet you ride him into a sweat," Merle continued, completely ignoring Daryl's warning. "See, you may pretend you some classy piece of peach fuzz but ole Merle? He knows better. Yup," he said as he raised his bottle to his lips. "I know how your kind likes screwin' us dirty hillbilly's." He leered at her. "Does rolling around in the mud get you all hot and bothered, angel tits?"

Raya wondered if Cain had stared at Abel with the same disgust and hatred she felt at that moment for Merle.

"If I am screwing around with your brother is, frankly, none of your business."

A soft chuff from the front door told her Krypto was listening and just waiting for her to give the command to attack. A quick glance at the front windows revealed two pairs of eyes, both the same shade of green as her own, peeking out through holes in the boards. Kai's eyes were a burning, blistering shade of green while Rose's were anxious and worried. She sent them what she hoped was a reassuring smile as Merle finished off his beer and tossed the bottle in the bushes lining the front walk.

"Hell, I don't care about what y'all do behind closed doors-"

"Then why even bother bringing it up?" She allowed some of her anger to surface and coated it with disdain. "Why stand there and run your brother down, call him nothing but a dirty hillbilly if you didn't care about what he was doing and who with?" She slowly turned to face him. "Because you do care, that's why. It eats you alive that I prefer Daryl to you. So you beat him down, remind him about how we are from two different worlds and beat into his head that I am only using him to amuse myself while I wait for someone better to come along."

"Sure got your dander up, don'cha, Prissy?"

"Goddamn right, I do." She felt Daryl's fingers drift across hers but shook her head at him. "No. He wanted to get a rise out of someone and he finally got it. Only, I don't care what he says about me. Let him call me a whore or some rich society bitch. I've heard it all before and learned that opinions are like assholes. And he's definitely one."

"Hush it," Daryl ordered. "And go on in the house."

"No."

"Don't be a-"

"Mule?" She sniffed, once, and folded her arms across her chest. "I am going to be a mule. I am," she insisted when he sighed and muttered some more things beneath his breath she couldn't make out. "I'm sick and goddamn tired of him pulling this shit."

"Look-"

"No, you look." She knew the words were a mistake soon as she said them. However, she didn't apologize for them. Not at that moment. "He says all this shit because he wants you to feel as bad about yourself as he feels about his own damn self."

"Got a way with words, though, don't I?"

"Shut up, Merle."

Merle lifted the full bottle of Coors held loosely between his fingertips to his lips. "You gonna spank me, girly?" A leer twisted one side of his mouth. "Hell, I don't mind a lil' recreational spankin'."

"I'm not going to play this game with you, Merle," Raya replied. "Not this time. You want to get in a fight with someone? Go find someone else to get into a fight with because it's not gonna be with me and it sure in the hell ain't gonna be with your brother."

"Why you care so much about what happens between me and my brother?"

"Because someone needs to." When their eyes met there was a clash. Raya almost swore she heard it in her head. The sound two swords made when struck against each other in battle. "He'll blister my ass later for getting involved in your business again, but hell, someone needs to tell you to knock your shit off. And the way I see it?" She planted her fists on her hips. "I'm just the right woman for the job."

Daryl had had enough at that point. "And you just the right woman to take her ass on inside that house," he grumbled as he took hold of her arm. "Now go on and git."

"No, I'm not going inside," she retorted even as Daryl hooked an arm around her waist and forcibly lifted her and set her in front of the front door. She shot him a look over one shoulder. "I'm not going inside until I tell his ass about why he says and does the shit he does."

"You-"

"Hell, ain't like I know why I say or do the shit I do," Merle cut in before Daryl could finish whatever he was about to say. "I'm a damn mystery even to me."

"Yeah, you might be a mystery to yourself, but not to me. I know exactly why you say and do the shit you do."

"Yeah? Well, why don't you explain it to me then, sugar plum?"

"Why?" She looked at him from around Daryl's arm. "You'll just deny it. Tell me I don't know what I am talking about, that I'm wrong, that I'm full of shit. But we both know that I know exactly what I'm talking about. And that that is why you want me to stay the hell away from your brother."

Merle was quiet for about thirty seconds. Then he turned away, mumbling over his shoulder, "Get the hell outta here."

"Yeah," Raya said with a sigh. "Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say." She flicked her eyes up to Daryl's, saw the warning inside the myriad of other things he was trying so hard to keep her from seeing. She stifled a sigh and felt the sticky swirl of guilt starting to form in the pit of her stomach. "Daryl…"

"Let's go inside and check on supper."

She obeyed his request without saying another word.


	22. Chapter 22

**Metropolis**

**Day 63 (Late Morning)**

An imposing figure in black and white wingtips and dressed in an immaculately tailored pinstripe suit, Lex Luthor stormed from his lavish top-floor office at just after ten that morning. He shut the door behind him with a great deal more calm than he felt before heading down the long, almost deserted hallway to the elevators. The couple of corporate monkeys who had not fled when evacuation orders came, remained closeted in their cramped offices. Not that leaving was much of an option for them. There was nowhere for them to go. Not after what city officials had touted as the city's only safe zone had been overrun by an obscene herd of undead just a few days ago.

Seeing the set expression on his face and the angry flush to his bald plate, even the head of his security team, a man known only as Hassam decided it was wiser, and much safer, to give him a wide berth. Luthor preferred it that way. He had no desire to hear any more ridiculously made-up excuses, be given empty promises, or told another batch of outright lies by any of the buffoons _currently_ in his employ. The Kent boy should have been delivered to him weeks ago and that was all there was to it. That the boy hadn't been brought to him vexed him. 

 _Tremendously_.

What irked him even more about the situation was that he had been in a relatively good mood up to that point. His hope for a speedy resolution to this predicament had increased when he learned Superman left Metropolis two nights before. He had assumed, and rightly so, that the caped superhero had headed to Gotham. The men he ordered stationed throughout the various boroughs the city boasted had spotted his longtime nemesis atop the roof of what had once served as the Gotham City Police Department with the former police commissioner and the Dark Knight himself.

Such a late night meeting between the three men could only mean that Wayne was about to prevail upon Superman to either go to Georgia and personally bring Kean and her children home to Gotham or swoop over to the West Coast and ask the Flash to do it. When he first received word of this late-night meeting between the three conspirators, he couldn't have been more pleased. He had expected this turn of things after Wayne vehemently rejected his more than gracious offer to send his own private army to escort the woman and her children here to Metropolis. Of course, ole Brucey was going to balk at his offer. His tenuous allegiance with the Justice League did not grant him access to either the boy or his mother. It was why he had extended the offer. 

He had suspected Wayne would send someone — and the most likely person was that obnoxious little scarlet speedster who had come on the scene a few months back -- to retrieve the family from wherever the hell it was Kean had hidden them. And when the man coldly refuted his carefully worded suggestion about how Kean and her children would be safer with him in Metropolis than in Gotham, he had known a plan was already underway to bring them home. He had sent his best men to Georgia, ordered them to search around the last known whereabouts of the woman and instructed them to watch and wait for the arrival of the caped superhero. Yes, a few days ago it had seemed like all of his plans were rolling along like good tires on a freshly paved road.

And then this gaping pothole arose to cause two of those tires to run flat.

Every ounce of his joviality fled when he discovered how not only had the Flash seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet, but that Superman himself had not gone to Georgia either. Flash had not been seen anywhere on the East or West coasts at any time in the last few weeks. Where the little speed freak had raced off too was being treated as a closely guarded secret by the active members of the Justice League. Why he wasn’t told about where the scarlet speedster was, or what it was that he was doing, irritated him almost as much as finding out that Superman had returned to Metropolis about an hour after sunrise. Every one of his plans was slowly unraveling and he didn't like it.

He didn't like it one bit.

Added to his already mountainous pile of frustrations was the fact that one of the morons he had sent to Georgia before this walker virus went global suddenly showed up in his office, alone, and with a note from the Kean woman that threatened bloody warfare if he didn't call his goons off. Luthor’s fingers had trembled with the urge to wrap around the man’s throat and squeeze until the man choked on his final breath. More, he found himself wanting to travel to Georgia and find the woman quickly becoming the bane of his existence.

It was long past time Dr. Kean learn her proper place.

Luthor rode the elevator from the top floor down to the manufacturing and administrative floor and stalked through the maze of dimly lit corridors, past dozens of now vacant offices, eerily silent assembly bays, and the ghost town that once had been his bustling shipping and receiving. He had not spoken a word since learning of there being a double-agent behind the failure of the first group he sent to retrieve the Kent boy, and the three men who trailed him from a safe distance invited none. As far as he was concerned, the men were merely one of the dozens of shadows trailing along in his wake.

He absolutely detested those who did not respect his privacy or his boundaries. The only people he abhorred more virulently than those who lacked the ability to respect his personal space were those who failed or betrayed him. _Or who let in people that I did not expressly give permission to allow in the building_. Luthor’s jaw clenched, hard enough his teeth ground against each other. There was going to be an extensive shakeup in his security department for them allowing this breach. He would have Hassam investigate the matter personally. _And_ , he thought as he stalked down another dark hallway, he would take whatever necessary actions against any of those who were found to not be who, or what they claimed to be.  _Any_  action, so long as it was one that he could have cleaned up later, was one he deemed as crucial to maintaining his position as the head of this organization.

He despised mistakes of any kind.

Almost as much as he loathed the ones who made them.

"Has Aslakov made contact?" he questioned Hassam as he headed through a set of double-doors into a private section of the facility that the public had no knowledge about. Here housed the offices and private laboratories of his top researchers and developers. Here was where many of his most top secret plans came to life. “Do we know where he and his men are as of this moment?”

"Yes, Mr. Luthor," Hassam replied in his deep baritone. "He and his team made contact just this morning to say they were passing through Virginia and would be in Georgia by the day after tomorrow at the latest."

"And do we have any idea about where Dr. Kean has been hiding herself and her children?"

"Amir’s last message was that they had tracked the Kean woman to a small farmhouse just outside of Atlanta."

 _Just outside of Atlanta_. There were any number of small towns and open country in which a crafty woman like Doctor Kean could hide. The woman was fast becoming more trouble than she was worth. Still…

"Make sure that Aslakov understands that I want Kean, her daughter and the boy all brought to me." He paused to send a look over his shoulder that had made many a man and woman cower in fear. Hassam, though, merely met his gaze with dark, impassive eyes. Luthor hummed his approval before saying, "And make sure he understands that I want them brought to me  _unharmed_. Or else there will be severe consequences."

It wasn't like he needed to explain what those severe consequences if his orders were ignored would be. Hassam glanced at the man on his left, nodding his dark head once in an indication that he was to carry out what Luthor had ordered. Instantly, the smaller man turned and headed down a long corridor to where their telecommunications hub had been set up. The rest of the world may have lost all communications when the world fell. He wasn’t just any ordinary man, however. He, much like Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen, and Ray Palmer had made sure to implement procedures to ensure they still had some form of communication available.

"At least  _someone_  in my employ is doing their job correctly," Luthor grunted as he resumed heading down the hall. “I was beginning to suspect I had a bunch of incompetent simpletons working for me.”

Hassam did not offer a reply. Not that Luthor expected one. He finally arrived at the closed doors of a large office at the end of another long hallway. A straight-backed guard stood to the left of the door, his eyes empty black pools inside his swarthy, pockmarked face.

"Why was I called down here?" Luthor simpered as he stopped in front of the man. "What is it that Jenkins wants that he would request me to come down here to his office?"

"Harley Quinn broke in and demanded to see you," the man replied in a voice devoid of any emotion.

"Did she now?" Now that had Luthor's attention. "How interesting."

"Dr. Jenkins thought you would want to interview her yourself."

"And where exactly is Dr. Jenkins?"

"Securing the boy."

One of Luthor's brows lifted. "The boy?" A kernel of hope blossomed inside him. "What boy?"

"Quinn brought Robin with her."

Now  _that_  was unexpected. And quite interesting, as well. Luthor felt a smile curving his lips for the first time in days. When he spoke, his tone was one that the men who were with him recognized as his most lethal.

"Did she now?"

He flung open the office door. Harley Quinn sat in an overstuffed armchair, looking surprisingly stylish and sophisticated in a well-tailored pantsuit. Her face was free of the garish clown makeup she habitually wore, making her appear somehow younger and more innocent than he knew the woman to be. She had poured herself a cup of coffee as she waited and held it between hands that did not betray her nervous state. Her eyes, blue as the paint on the walls, sparked with intelligence from behind the lenses of the glasses she wore. Luthor took a moment to let his rage over the ineptness of those in his employ to die down before he spoke to the woman. He had to appear in control at all times. It would not do for any of those who worked for him to see him in any other state. Once he had himself under control he closed the door and slowly crossed towards the huge desk situated in front of the windows that looked out into a huge laboratory.

"Miss Quinn," he said cordially. "I am rather surprised to see you here. When last we spoke you did not seem interested in the generous offer I made you."

"I've had a change of heart." Quinn's voice sounded as if it belonged more to a little girl than it did to a woman fully grown. "Youse said youse would help me ta start over somewhere new if’n I’d help youse make contact with the Doc and her son?"

“No,” Luthor corrected in a low, velvety purr. "I said that I would help you to start over somewhere new if you helped me find Christopher Kent and his mother."

"I already told youse that I dunno where exactly Doc Kean is." Harley gave a delicate sniff as she sat back in her seat. "She moved ta Georgia years ago. That's all I know."

"I am already aware that Doctor Kean moved to Georgia. What I don't know is what path she might take to get home."

"If'n the Doc is as smart a woman as I’ma thinkin’ she is,” Harley said airily. “Then she will stay wherever she is. That way them undead thingies don’t get her and them kids."

"That,” Luthor’s tone said he was nearing the end of what patience he had. "Is why I have sent my own personal men to Georgia. I want to make sure that the…” His lips curled. “Undead thingies do not get her and her children. I want to keep them safe."

"Thinkin’ they gonna be plenty safe now that the Red Birdie has left Gotham.”

“Red Robin has left Gotham?” Why hadn’t he known about this? “When?” he demanded.

“A coupla days ago."

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise. It was well known that the Kean woman was closely tied to the Red Wonder. Even that demented freak, the Joker, knew that the woman's one weakness, besides her own two children, was...  _Robin_. A light flipped on as realization dawned. A slow smile curved his lips as he figured out why Quinn had brought the boy to him.  _Clever woman_ , he mused.  _Bringing me the one thing that might convince Doctor Kean to not only bring her son to me but to place him in my care, as well_.

"So," he purred as he took a seat behind the desk. "You have successfully managed to pique my interest, Miss Quinn." He steepled his fingers in front of him. "That is not an easy feat to accomplish."

A small smile graced Harley's pale pink lips. "Youse ready ta finally talk business, Mr. L?"

"Mr. L?"

"What?" Harley flipped the end of her ponytail over her shoulder. "Don't youse like it?"

He ignored the challenge in her tone. He could handle whatever the little nitwit wanted to call him so long as it would finally deliver Christopher Kent to him.

"What is it that you want, Miss Quinn?"

…

**Virginia (Afternoon)**

Rains swept in late that morning, pounded the ground, the top of trees, then swept out again so that the heat still clinging to the air became choking. A land cruiser sped down a long stretch of interstate, past mile upon mile of abandoned or burned out vehicles, past cities and towns that once teemed with life, past hurriedly put together sanctuaries that wouldn't keep out a flea, much less one of the voracious monsters roaming the globe. A massive pile-up forced the cruiser off the highway a short time later. Suddenly, the SUV found itself driving across a barren countryside where scraggly patches of scrub and greenery dotted the side of the road.

The only positive that could be said about this trek was that the cruiser had the road all to itself. It raced at breakneck speed towards its scheduled rendezvous in some podunk town on the outskirts of Atlanta without worry or concern about being pulled over. It bounced over the road beneath a sky almost as black as the paint job on the cruiser. _Definitely a bad omen_ , Nico Aslakov thought as he stared out the passenger side window at the nothingness flying by. The middle-aged man sat tensely in his seat. He was flanked by six other similarly grim-faced men in black suits and matching ties. Each of them carried enough weapons in which to stop a small army. _Or a woman personally trained by both Batman and Wonder Woman_...

More weapons, of a higher caliber and grade, were stored in the silver cases stacked neatly in the back of the cruiser. Even still, Aslakov shifted in his seat, fighting off his increasing feeling that he should have told Luthor to take this particular job and shove it. Hunting a wild lion would be a whole lot easier than tracking down the Fenix and taking her son from her. _Boss is outta his damn mind if he thinks this job is gonna be simple_. Not that Lex Luthor really gave a shit about how difficult this job was. No, the way a man like Luthor viewed it, the world was his to command and control and they were the goons who helped him to do it.

"Are we sure Batman hasn't sent any of his other birds to protect the bitch?" One of the men, a new recruit named Dolonov broke the silence to ask. "Nobody has caught a glimpse of Robin, Red Robin or Nightwing in weeks."

"Or the Red Hood," another new recruit chimed in. "Of the four, he's the most unpredictable."

 _And_ , Asklakov mused silently. _The most dangerous of all of Batman’s little helpers_. The Red Hood wouldn’t be afraid to use lethal methods in order to protect the woman and her children.

“Red Hood was in Blüdhaven,” Dolonov told the man who had spoken. “There’s no way he could have gotten out of there without Luthor knowing about it.”

"Luthor said that none of Batman’s protégés have been sent to Atlanta to retrieve Kean and her brats," Askalov assured them. "He believes she is still safely hidden in Atlanta and waiting for Superman or that scarlet speedster to come and get her."

"The Fenix has broken my nose exactly thirteen times." The speaker, a swarthy-faced man named Timo, shifted to look at Askalov. In the confines of the cruisers interior, his eyes glowed with malice and malcontent. "She will not do so again."

Askalov made a low, speculative sound deep in his throat.

"Luthor wants Kean brought to him unharmed."

Timo's lips curled into a sneer. "Accidents,” he rumbled. “Happen."

Askalov silently considered what the man said. Eliminating the Fenix would make bringing the boy to Luthor all the easier. However, they ran the risk of failure if they did not carefully consider all the angles or make sure to plan for any move a woman as well trained as the Fenix might make.

"If an opportunity presents itself," he finally told him. "Eliminate her. If one doesn't? We take her to Luthor. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

They continued the drive in silence. They passed through what looked to have been a small town about ten minutes later. The streets were devoid of any walks of life. If they had not encountered dozens of ghost towns since leaving Metropolis, it would have been a huge red herring about how far the pandemic had spread. Still, Askalov felt it was wise to err on the side of caution.

"Keep an eye out," he ordered. "Don't need to be surprised by a bunch of these undead things running around."

"Yes, sir."

They drove on, seeing nothing until they reached a crossroad about a mile outside of town. The way left, right and forward was blocked by a dozen armed men standing beside some dirty pick-up trucks. At least a dozen more men watched from a handful of motorbikes stationed in a V-shape behind the vehicles.

"What the...?" Dolonov grunted. "Who are these assholes?"

"Don't know," the driver of the cruiser replied as he slowly brought the vehicle to a stop. "But those guns a few of them are carrying are military-grade."

"I say drive through 'em," a man in the backseat by the name of Holt grumbled. "Nothing they got is gonna damage the cruiser."

"No," Askalov said as a man with slicked back hair the same color as his leather jacket emerged from a white van. "Let's hear what they have to say first."

The man swaggered towards the cruiser, a slippery smirk twisting his lips and a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire held casually over one shoulder.

"So," the man said in lieu of a greeting. "You fuckity fucks thought you were going to simply drive through my goddamn town without payin' my muther fucking toll?" He shook his head. "Not cool, man. Not cool at all."

Timo went to reach for his gun, but Askalov stopped him by holding up a hand.

"And exactly how much is your toll?" he asked the man in a clear, calm voice. "And who exactly are we paying it too?"

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me for forgettin' my fucking manners." The man swept his arms wide. "Name's Negan. And half of whatever you dick fucking muther fuckers have in this cruiser is now mine."

Askalov regarded the man silently for a moment. His boorish and crude mannerisms disgusted him. However, there was something about the man that told him he ruled his ragtag bunch of men with the same cool efficiency that Luthor ran his corporation. Utilizing him and his men could well aid them in preventing the Kean woman from slipping by them.

"Well, Mr. Negan," he began as he flicked away an imaginary speck of dirt from the lapel of his jacket. "I am agreeable to your demand. However..." He let the word dangle for a second. "I am willing to supply you with even more weapons than we have with us here in return for your help."

Interest flickered in the other man's eyes. "And just what sorta fucking help are you fuckwads wantin’?"

"We need help finding a woman and her two children."

"Why the fuck you fuckers lookin' for this fucking broad and her kids?” A shadow passed over the man's face and warned Askalov to tread lightly. “What the fuck do you fuckers want with them?"

"I can assure you we mean the woman and her children no harm," he told the lie smoothly and without any regret. "We just have been hired to find them and bring them to our boss's compound for their safety and protection."

"Yeah?" Negan opened the door of the cruiser and indicated for Askalov to get out. "Why don't you step into my fucking office so we can fucking negotiate us some fucking terms and conditions then."

"Of course." Askalov signaled for his men to stand down as he stepped from the cruiser. "After you."


	23. Chapter 23

**Quarry Camp (Late Afternoon)**

His moist sigh stirred the stagnant air and one small, annoyingly persistent fly buzzing around his face. He waved at the disgusting thing, mildly exasperated and wishing desperately they could just return home. Only, this quarry camp on the outskirts of Atlanta was their home now. It had been their home ever since the night the big, black helicopters had flown overhead. He, much like everyone else who had been there at the time had watched, horribly transfixed and utterly horrified as the Atlanta skyline became a colossal wall of flame.

Even a kid like him knew that those helicopters bombing the city was bad -- very bad. He had played enough video games to know what bombing the city meant. As he stood beside Mrs. Peletier and her daughter, Sophia, he had found himself wishing his dad had been there. He had desperately wanted the comfort of his presence and protection.

His dad hadn't been there, though.

His dad wasn't gonna be there ever again.

A small part of him wanted to continue holding out hope that his dad would suddenly pull up in one of the department's cruisers, completely recovered from the gunshot wound that had put him in that coma in the first place and with a big, happy smile on his face. The more practical side of him, though, said there was no way that it was ever gonna happen. His dad died in that hospital. Shane had told him and his mom he had died the day he had come to take them away to somewhere he said would be "safe."

 _Shane wouldn't lie about something like that_ , he thought, his mouth turning down at the corners. _He wouldn't lie about dad dying. He was his best friend. He would have done everything he could have to see that dad got better. He would have made sure that dad made it outta that hospital if he could have._

Wouldn't he?

Carl shrugged off the kernels of suspicion churning in his belly like unpopped popcorn. Shane wouldn't have lied about his dad dying and that was all there was to it. Besides, he reasoned as he tried to focus on the math homework his mom insisted he do despite there having been no school since before the evacuation orders came, even if his dad hadn't died on that particular day, there was no way he would have survived for much longer. Not without doctors and nurses there to help take care of him.

It wasn't like his father had been in any sort of condition where he could leave the hospital. And it wasn't like Shane could have moved him somewhere else. Not without causing his dad any additional harm or injury. _Not like he could push dad out of the hospital on a gurney when there were men shooting anything and everything that moved_ , he thought as he slammed shut the textbook with another long sigh. The fly buzzed around his hair and he swatted at it, mumbling a few of the choice expletives he heard his dad and Shane say whenever they thought he wasn't around.

A loud boisterous laugh broke the quiet hum that had fallen over the camp and Carl looked up in time to see Merle Dixon being led away by his younger brother, Daryl. It didn't take much to figure out what, or who, Carl corrected silently that the elder Dixon had been picking on. Just one look at the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Morales, Mr. Douglas, Glenn and a few of the others all told him who Mr. Dixon had likely been picking on.

Carl didn't mind Daryl. While he could be just as loud as his brother, and as aggressive at times, he didn't tend to say half of the mean things Merle did. Nor did Daryl try to start as many fights as his brother. When Merle wasn't around, Daryl was mostly quiet, tending to either stick to their part of the campsite or go off on long hunting trips by himself. The couple of times when he had been allowed to interact with him, he had been polite, answering his questions rather than giving him the usual adult answer of “mind his business.”

_It's just when Merle is around that he tends..._

A shadow of movement on his left interrupted his internal musings. A quick glance at the sun peeking through the thick canopy overhead confirmed what time it was. _And will today be the same as yesterday_? _And the day before? And the day before that?_ He was sure it would be. A second later, his mom exited their tent, darted a quick look over her shoulder -- completely ignoring him, he couldn't help but notice _that_ \-- before turning and heading off in the direction of the woods.

The sound of a chair being pushed back got him to turn his head. _Yup_ , he thought as he turned to see Shane had gotten up and casually strolled after his mom. _It was the same routine as yesterday_. It had been the same thing every day for the past month. His mom would grab some empty water bottles, give Shane a look and then slowly walk off into the forest as if she was doing nothing more than going to get water.

 _Don't they hear the others all whispering 'bout 'em_? He found himself wondering as resentment and bitterness festered and bubbled inside him. _Can't they see the looks that get passed between Mrs. Peletier and the other women whenever they sneak off like this_?

He sure had heard all of the things that were being said. Course, he hadn't exactly understood what their comments or looks had meant until he overheard Jacqui mentioning to Andrea a few days ago about how "shameful" it was that his dad wasn't even "cold in the ground" and there she was "taking up with his best friend." Everything had finally started to make sense to him. He finally understood why his mom didn't seem to be all that upset about his dad being gone. Why should she be when Shane was there to fill that void?

"Carl, honey?"

He glanced over at Mrs. Peletier, saw her kind, sympathetic smile and had to resist the urge to toss or break something in his frustration. He didn't want her sympathy or her pity! He wanted his old life back! Was that too much to ask? He wanted his house, his bedroom, his stuff, his dog, his school, his friends. _Most of all I want_... he let the thought dangle because the one thing he wanted, desperately, in fact, was his dad back.

And he couldn't have him.

"Carl?"

"Yes, Mrs. Peletier?"

"Why don't you come over here with me and Sophia?"

"Sure."

 _Why shouldn't I go over there_? he thought as he slowly trudged over to where Sophia was clutching her old rag doll to her chest. It wasn't like his mom cared about where he was or who he was with. _She'd probably be happy if I went away, too_ , he thought as he took a seat beside Sophia. _Then she wouldn’t have to pretend to worry about me_.

Or pretend that she even knew where he was…

**…**

**Metropolis**

Robin waited for Harley to return from her _meeting_ with Luthor behind a barricade that had been formed out of a dozen overturned, burned out and otherwise abandoned vehicles. Minus the soft whispers and occasional bursts of laughter coming from the trio of men perched on overturned buckets behind him, the underground parking garage was absolutely silent. He found the absence of sound suited his present mood perfectly.

Emotions swirled around inside him, some so fast he thought he would be swept up in the force of them. Uncertainty and confusion. A type of burning anger and gut-wrenching agitation.  _Fear_. He felt the latter most prevalently of them all. His feelings of unease started the moment he and Harley snuck into the laboratories beneath LexCorp and grown steadily worse with every scrap of information he managed to uncover.

His brief investigation inside the facilities main laboratory had been an eye opener. Multiple clones remained in states of suspended animation inside their glass tubes, their blank forms obvious templates for the army of Supermen that Luthor wanted to create from the genetic material he planned to harvest from Kai. Files containing photographs, detailed lab reports, school evaluations, doctor notes, and medical information about both Kai and his father, the genetic clone once known as Superboy had verified the billionaire’s intentions.

The amount of information Luthor had about his cousin shook Robin to the core of his being. It was obvious the man had spared no expense and gone to exceptional lengths in order to gather the information he had about a boy he routinely had been denied access too. _Not just about Kai_ , he realized as one of the goons behind him struck a match against a stone barricade. _But about Kean and Rose, as well_. Why the man was so fixated upon creating a clone army was a mystery to him.  _Why_? Robin found himself asking as he hunched his shoulders and narrowed his gaze upon the stairwell from which Harley should have emerged from ten minutes ago.  _What purpose is there in having a bunch of clones of Superman running around?_

The majority of humanity was slowly and systematically being wiped out by the plague that had been unleashed upon it. So what purpose was there to having an army of Supermen? Who exactly did Luthor need to conquer when all those who had been in charge of the world were either in hiding or dead? Robin  _tutted_ as he tried to see the rationale and logic of such an endeavor from Luthor's perspective. Having an army to fight the undead made sense, but did they need to be clones of Superman? He didn't believe so. He didn't believe there was any reason, beyond the typical, for why Luthor needed to amass such a powerful army for himself.

 _Does Father know what Luthor is planning_? He imagined he did. There wasn't much that either escaped his father's notice or that he didn't have some advanced knowledge of. It was the only plausible explanation for why he ordered Kean to remain in Georgia until either Superman or that obnoxious scarlet speed freak could be there to escort her and Kai and Rose home.

 _Father didn't anticipate that the Flash would end up lost in the Speed Force_ , he thought as he watched Quinn exit the stairwell and begin crossing the parking garage. Nor had his father counted on Luthor being desperate enough, serious enough about his desire to have Kai and Kean brought to him that he would contact some of their enemies for assistance. He also doubted his father had counted on Harley Quinn willingly offering to help them stop Luthor.  _I doubt he would believe I have willingly decided to work with Quinn in order to stop Luthor from getting his hands upon Kai..._

Not that why he had chosen to work with Quinn wouldn't be easy for a man of his father's considerable intelligence to deduce. Once Harley explained that his _abduction_ had been staged by his father to prevent any of those looking for Kean from growing suspicious, he had chosen to work with Quinn. He would have agreed to work with her anyway. Why? Because he believed her. He believed she meant it when she said she wanted to help them stop Luthor.  _I just don't understand_ why _she wants to help her_ , he thought, his brow lowering over the bridge of his nose.  _I don't understand what Quinn expects to get out of helping us_.

Not that it mattered. When it came down to the heart of it, Robin really only had to decide if trusting a woman with the storied history and penance for violence of Harley Quinn was worth the life of his cousin and best friend. A breeze blew through the garage and brought the stench of rotting flesh and other refuse on the back of words he treasured above all others.

' _I love you_ ,' he heard Raya whisper in that melodious voice that always chased away the shadows hanging over his heart. ' _Never forget that, Dami_.' He squelched a shiver as he felt those small, clever fingers skim through his hair and along the curve of his spine. ' _I_ love  _you_.'

Hearing that voice, those words chased away the unease surfing through him. A rush of calm settled over him as he heard a faint humming next to his left ear. His eyes drifted shut and he allowed himself to indulge in this hallucination born out of a dozen memories he kept locked inside a special place in his heart. _You know I am doing this for you as much as for Kai._ _No_ , he corrected silently.  _I'm doing this because it is_ you  _who would be hurt most by what Luthor has planned for Kai_.

For a moment, just one, he could almost feel her press a gentle kiss to his temple in response to his bold claim. For a moment, just one, he imagined her arms closing around him, could feel her curving her body around his, swore that he could smell that unique scent that he knew to be hers and hers alone. For a moment, just one, he indulged himself, burrowed his face against the curve of that vapory shoulder, and let her ghostly presence chase away the chill that crawled beneath his armor and slicked its smoky fingers over his clammy skin.

 _No_ , he thought as he opened his eyes in time to see Harley exiting the stairwell. No, his decision to work with the petite blonde had not been a difficult one for him to make. Why he was doing it, who he was doing it for, were people who were more than worth taking such a chance for. Luthor threatened his family. He compromised his inner sanctum. And he put the woman -- the only one to granted such a lofty privilege -- he considered his mom in a position to be hurt.

 _For all that Talia al Ghul is my mother_ , he thought with a familiar burst of bitterness, _she's definitely not my mom_. No, his mom was a warm and real woman who smelled like the air after a summer rainstorm. His mom always greeted him with a smile, with a hug, with a teasing comment or gentle touch. His mom saw him for who he was, and not for the single greatest thing her team of scientists created. She loved him in spite of his innumerable flaws and imperfections.

 _She loves me because of them_ , he thought as he watched Harley skip across the parking garage to where he and her three hired goons waited. Harley’s unpainted mouth trembled with a slightly mischievous smile, her face glowed with some sort of light that he couldn't define, and her eyes shined behind the lenses of her glasses with some sort of feminine secret. He had seen Kean with a similar expression upon her face. What it meant, he had no idea.  _Grayson says it is a mystery I will understand when I am older_. He had serious doubts he would understand women even then. Harley bounced to a stop in front of him

"Youse didn’t run into any problems?" She asked as she bounced to a stop in front of him. “Nobody saw you?”

Robin merely snorted a response to that ridiculous question. “Of course not.”

“Youse got the information we needed then?”

“ _Ffff_.” He unfolded his body and stood. “I got everything that Luthor has on Kean and Kai.” He indicated the boxes that her goons had loaded into the van. “It’s all in those boxes.”

Harley just stared at the boxes with a mixture of disbelief and unease. “He ain’t takin’ no chances,” she finally whispered. “He wants to get his hands on the Doc’s kid and ain’t above callin’ on anyone at this point to help him.” She flicked her troubled gaze back to his. “Youse got any idea about how many of his morons he’s already sent after the Doc?”

“Three groups of about ten men each,” Robin replied. “One group attacked her while she was making an escape from a refugee camp on the outskirts of Blue Ridge, Georgia.” His lips split into a small smile. “She sent one of the men back with a warning about what will happen if Luthor doesn’t back off.”

“But he ain’t gonna back off.” Harley heaved a sigh. “Mr. L is cooking up somethin’ for the Doc but he ain’t sayin’ what.”

“He will try and hire Slade Wilson to find her.”

Harley cocked her head to the head as she considered that bit of information in silence. “Youse think so?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“One group is being led by a man named Darko,” he patiently explained. “The other by a man named Askalov.”

“And they both work for the one-eyed bastard?” she guessed. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Can the Doc take care of ‘em if’n they find her?”

Robin scoffed. “Kean will handle them with ease.”

It was Slade Wilson she would struggle with defeating. Robin didn’t tell her that, though. He figured they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

"Did youse learn about where the Doc mighta gone after she encountered Mr. L’s goons outside that refugee camp?"

"Kean's general whereabouts are said to be around the Atlanta area but an exact location is unknown."

A slight frown wrinkled the skin between her eyes. "Youse can find her, though, right?"

"Of course." He sniffed, once. "She might be able to evade Batman, Nightwing, Hood and Red but she has no hope of hiding from _me_."

"Well, c'mon then," Harley laughed as she spun on one spiky heel. "Let’s go and find the Doc and her baby birds before Mr. L does."

Robin followed her without a word.

**…**

**Georgia**

"Mom tends to compartmentalize," Christopher confessed as he and Rick searched the cottage for anything they could use. "She puts everyone else above her based upon what she thinks they need versus what she needs."

"That's just how your mom is choosing to respond to the situation," Rick explained as he sifted through a box of tools. Most were broken and wouldn't be of any use, but the small hammer and Phillips screwdrivers could be useful in a pinch. He set them aside before glancing at Christopher. "Your mom is focusing on the things that she can do something about so that those things she can't do anything about, don't weigh upon her so heavy."

Christopher cut him a look that told him he didn't buy that for one minute.

"You can admit she's a control freak," the teen joked lightly. "It's not like the hugest secret in our family. Shoot," he said with a smile. "Even she admits she is one."

Rick felt his lips twitch. "She is a control freak.” He chose his words carefully, spoke them slowly just in case the woman in question was listening. “But this is more than just a case of her needing to control every little aspect and detail."

The boy rolled his eyes before drawling, "She's just being a mom."

"Yeah, she is," he agreed with a nod. "And that is a big part of why she is compartmentalizing and putting what you need ahead of what she needs." He set another small toolkit to the side. While the wrenches were rusty, they could be useful if the Bronco broke down and needed repair. He glanced at Christopher. "Your mom can't fix or stop what is happening in the world. She can't make it safe. So she is doing what she can do, what she knows to do, in order to ensure yours and Rose's safety and survival."

Christopher made a _ffff_ sound. "Mom never puts herself first. Or stops to think about herself when stuff gets bad. It's like the biggest thing she and Uncle Dick…” his voice trailed off as he paused, considered what it was he was wanting to say. "Well, it’s the biggest thing she and Uncle Dick, Tim, Jason, Grandpa Bruce and Jim all tend to argue about." He scratched the back of his neck with one hand. "Well, that and the fact that she willfully and recklessly rushes into dangerous situations..." He flashed him a lopsided grin. "But you already know about her penchant for doing that."

Rick merely grunted at that. Raya blithely diving into a group of infected that morning had caused quite a heated debate between them. He hadn't backed down and she had not apologized, but they had, at least, managed to come to a compromise of sorts. _Compromise being_ , he thought as he opened another box and sifted through paint supplies, _that she doesn't just wade into a group of walkers without waiting for me_.

"Your mom and I worked things out," was all he said to the still smiling boy.

 _And without hurting each other by hurling hateful, ugly words at each other_. He ignored that thought and started boxing the tools in one of the empty boxes.

"Yuh, you worked it out _after_ you yelled at each other about it for like three hours."

"It wasn't three hours..." He flicked a look at him from over his shoulder. "Was it?"

"Yup." There was more than a bit of amusement in the boy’s voice, upon his face. "You guys were yelling at each other for like three hours."

“Yeah, well.” Rick hid his grimace. "You don't need to sound so amused about it."

"Why not?" Christopher’s grin stretched even wider. "Always fun watching mom get a dose of her own medicine." Then he sobered. "She needs someone to remind her that she's gotta worry about herself, too.”

"That's not how parents tend to think during times like this." He turned towards Christopher. "Our focus is on protecting you. And on making sure that you remain out of danger." He sent him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "We are supposed to do whatever it takes to protect you because we are your parents."

"Yeah, but she's so focused on mine and Rose's safety that she is ignoring her own." Those eyes, green as fresh grass, locked on his. "Her life don't matter to her. It's never mattered to her." Rick watched those eyes change, saw a multitude of emotions swirl into them, all of them dark and troubled. "Way Mom sees it? She's been living on borrowed time for years."

Nothing the boy could have said could have stunned him more. "Borrowed time? What do you mean she’s living on borrowed time?”

"Mr. Grimes you gotta understand that living in a city like Gotham that you make enemies without even having to try. And Mom? She's gotta couple wack jobs who been trying to kill her for years. That's why she moved us here to Georgia. Figured it was as far away from the monsters as she could get us." It wasn't just fear he saw in Christopher's eyes now. It wasn't even anger. It was bleak resignation. "But the monsters are here now, aren't they? They're everywhere. And Mom? She's gonna do whatever it takes to keep 'em from getting me and Rose. Even if it means sacrificing herself."

"I won't let that happen," he assured the boy in a voice that wasn't as strong or as confident as he would have liked it to be. "I promise that I won't let anything happen to your mom."

"You can't be here forever, Mr. Grimes," Christopher pointed out quietly. "You got your own family to worry about."

"We'll figure out what to do when that time comes." He set a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Okay?"

"'Kay," was the boy's mumbled reply.


	24. Chapter 24

**Georgia (Night)**

Her moist sigh billowing across his arm and chest woke Rick from the light doze he allowed himself to fall into. A glance through the thin cracks in the wood planks covering the front window showed him it was night still. A frown puckered his brow as he used a thin beam of moonlight in which to read the time on the watch he set atop a wood crate before making himself comfortable. It was just barely a few minutes past eleven. _How long was I actually asleep_? Rick found himself wondering as he stretched out the kinks in his back and shoulders.

It felt like it had only been a few minutes since he drifted off. He desperately wanted to shut his gritty eyes and try to reclaim the small bit of oblivion that sleep granted him, but instinctively knew such bliss would be a long time in returning, even in spite of the exhaustion weighing heavy on him. His overly tired state was his own fault, though. He had been the one to push himself. He set the grueling pace. He had them searching the smaller cities and towns around them from sunup to sundown for any possible clues as to his family's whereabouts.

Finding Lori and Carl had not been his only reason for pushing them so hard, though. He had also hoped to somehow run across the man - _Tarzan_ as Raya called him – she had been traveling with up until about four days ago. Hunting a hunter of this man's obvious caliber was almost like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The odds were not in his favor. Yet what choice did he have? Learning from Christopher about there being multiple bulls-eyes on Raya's back had not pleased him in the slightest. His first instinct upon hearing that startling bit of news had been to go and Raya and talk with her about the dangers waiting for her back in Gotham.

However, he couldn't confront Raya with what he knew because it had been revealed it to him in the strictest of confidence. Had he actually uncovered the information during the course of a police investigation it would be a different story. He would have no problem whatsoever in calling her out, request that she tell him about these "whack jobs" who wanted to kill her and demand an explanation for why they did. He couldn't do that, though. Not without giving up how he had come about the information. The last thing he wanted to do was betray Christopher. His gut told him that if he did reveal what the boy told him that it would shatter the thin bit of trust that had formed between him and the boy over the last couple of days.

His instincts as a father told him Christopher needed this bond. He needed his support and his friendship. _He needs that male figure he can look towards for guidance and instruction_. Not that the boy couldn't look to his mother for those things. However, that was the problem. She was his mother. _And there are things a boy simply can't talk about with his mother._

Rick knew that from experience. There had been plenty of stuff he couldn't talk to his mom about. Especially when those things either directly concerning her or were about something embarrassing like girls. When the boy was home with his uncle's and grandfather's he had a strong male support system. This wasn't Gotham and his male family members were not here. He was, though. And so was whoever this Tarzan fella was.

_Just need to find him_ , he thought as he rubbed a hand over his face. That, again, was proving easier said than done. He had them spend the last two days searching a stretch of road he felt would be an ideal one for people evacuating the cities to use. The fields were perfect for forming small encampments in which survivors could wait out the flood of undead sweeping through the state. _No, the world_ , he amended, his face twisting into a small, pained grimace. Raya, as well as Morgan had been crystal clear when they told him that whatever this _virus_ was, it was _everywhere_. Nobody was safe from whatever was going on. This virus was not discriminate. It attacked man, woman or child. It hit all races, ages, classes and creeds. The very rich and the extremely poor suffered it in equal proportions.

_Nobody is safe from this disease_ , he thought as a soft sigh escaped the woman asleep beside him. _It can hit at any time and from anywhere. It can kill its victim quickly or make them suffer for a prolonged duration_. As he lay there, listening to the light snores coming from the white dog sleeping by the front door, he thought over the conversation they about the virus before settling in to get some sleep.

…

"What about a cure?" His voice had been calm as he helped to spread blankets over the sleeping bags they managed to procure from a small sporting goods store. "Or a vaccine?"

He asked her the questions that had been haunting him ever since he woke up to find that the world had gone all to hell. _The safer questions anyway_ , he thought as he evened out the lumps in order to make the temporary bed more comfortable to sleep upon. The ones that didn't come with answers that were likely to either cause his temperature to rise or his mind to turn into mush. Raya glanced over at him as she unfolded a thick blue comforter. He knew by the slight puckering of the skin between her eyebrows that she was worrying about something. What exactly it was, was anybody's guess.

If Rick was a gambling man, though, he would have bet a month's salary that the cause of her present worry was _him_. She had been fretting over his physical condition just that afternoon, begging him to slow down, to take it easy, to remember that he was only human and had a breaking point. Her concern annoyed him as much as it touched him. He was a grown man, after all. He knew when he needed to stop, to slow down, to give into his body's demands. _For food or rest_ , he quickly clarified. He didn't dare give any thought to the dozens of _other_ demands that his mind and body had been whispering to him about filling.

He saw her frown deepen and stifled a sigh, as well as his sudden urge to reach out and smooth away the lines marring that creamy skin. While not something that could be classified as an immensely intimate gesture, it was still, in his mind, not an appropriate one for people who had only known one another for such a short amount of time. He ignored the little voice that was calling him both a fool and a liar and asked her yet another question that had been on his mind for the past few days.

"Weren't they working on _anything_ that would have stopped what was going on before it could get become so out of control?"

"Every laboratory in the world was ordered to set aside their other projects and begin working on figuring out what was happening," she replied in a voice ripe with sympathy and understanding. "People from multiple medical and scientific disciplines all came together in order to not only figure out what this disease was but find a way in which to stop it. Or," she added with a slight grimace. "At least slow the progression of it down."

"And what did they find out?"

Not that he couldn't look outside and see for himself about what they _hadn't_ found out…

"Well." The word was punctuated with a sigh. "You can see what they didn't find out."

"A whole lot of nothing?"

"Pretty much."

Rick couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that with all the technology at their disposal and all the advancements they had made in the field of medical science that they couldn't find some sort of answer, at least.

"How can they have found nothing?"

Raya took a moment to spread the comforter over the top of the blankets he had smoothed out before answering.

"They didn't find nothing, Rick." She sat back on the balls of her feet. "It's just that what they were uncovering was what most everybody already knew or suspected already." She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "Gathering new information about the disease was taking time that we didn't have."

"So there wasn't a way to stop this before it spiraled so far out of control."

"There was no way to stop what was happening because they could not isolate the source — the first person to become infected with the disease," she explained when she saw his puzzled expression. "There were multiple cases happening all across the globe, most all of them occurring at the same time, and all of them following the same progression. Phylogenetic DNA testing was being done to try and establish a link between victims, but it was proving difficult because there were so many cases."

"And not enough time in the end for them to process everything," he surmised. "Am I right?"

"Yes." She nodded. "For them to sort through that much data and find the one link that bound all of the infected together was looking to take years." She shook her head. "We barely had a few months in which to prepare for what was about to happen."

"They learned _nothing_?"

It was almost unbelievable to him that in a world that had become so advanced medically and technologically that nobody could figure out what was causing people to turn into the undead.

"What few answers were found all concluded that this is something that attacks the brain specifically, become activated at the moment death is about to occur, and reanimates the primal drives only."

"What about a vaccine?" He didn't know why he bothered to even ask that question. He already knew what her answer was going to be. "Did they at least try to create a vaccine?"

"There was a vaccine. Two, actually," she admitted with a faint grimace. "Both were being administered to infected people in Paris, Los Angeles, and Tokyo, I do believe."

"And?" Again, why he bothered to ask a question he already knew the answer too was beyond him. "What were the results?"

"The results were..." She looked down at her hands, curled as they were around the pillow in her lap. "Well, the results were clearly not what was being hoped for," she finally said in a subdued voice. "In fact, the vaccine was causing-"

"-even more people to die."

She gave a short, almost imperceptible nod of her head.

"And that resulted in the disease spreading even more out of control than it already was." There wasn't weariness in the eyes that she lifted to his; that would have been easy to combat. No, what Rick saw was emptiness. And that tugged at him something fierce. He tamped down his urge to "It was a bad situation that kept getting worse every time an attempt was made to make it better."

"They should have tried harder."

"They tried as hard as they could, Rick." Her voice trembled with just a hint of the emotions she kept buried below that veneer of icy calm. "They tried everything they could think of. This disease, whatever it is, it just spread way too fast and claimed way too many lives in the process. Besides that," she added as she passed him the pillow, "even if a solution can be found, the lines of communication have all been lost. There would be no way for us to find out about it, much less be able to get our hands upon the vaccine. Our lives would remain exactly as they are right now."

"You mean fucked."

Her lips trembled with the ghost of a smile. "Succulent way of putting it."

"Sor-"

"Don't be." She handed him another blanket that he tossed at the foot of the makeshift bed. "You're right. We're fucked. Now we pooches have to figure out how to survive the shit that has rolled down the hill and covered us all."

His lips twitched. "Can't unscrew the pooch?"

Her eyes glinted with a spark of mischief. "I could say something completely inappropriate here about things that can't be unscrewed..."

"But keen ears are listening?"

"And already know enough naughty little sayings thanks to their uncles."

Rick snorted a laugh. "I have a feeling that you are as much to blame for that as their uncles."

One eyebrow lifted. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you, ma'am," he lightly kidded, "are no angel."

"God's no." Her nose wrinkled in a way he found adorable. "Too boring."

"Being an angel is boring?"

"Well…" The sing-song quality of her tone warned him that she was about to say something outrageous. "Mae West always said that 'when I'm good, I'm _very_ good. But, when I'm bad..."' She flashed him a saucy wink. "'I'm _better_."'

The woman knew what she was doing. There was no way she couldn't. He knew her flirtatious comment was meant to lighten the tone. Yet it also managed to cause a spike in his blood pressure. _Stop it_ , he ordered himself. _You're a married man, for chrissakes. You don't have any right to be thinking about her in any way other than as a friend_.

"So." He took two careful breaths, knowing he would stutter otherwise. "There's no going back, is there?"

"There never was, Rick." Her smile was sad. "There never was."

…

Her final words had been a disheartening and disquieting dose of reality. There was no going back, no fixing the situation, and nothing they could do but what they had been doing: running and hiding. Rick glanced around the small cottage they were using as a shelter, comforted by the fact that they had a roof at least over their heads. The house would keep them comfortable and relatively safe from anything that tried to get in at them from the front door. He could see it as a good place to…

Another breath trembled along his arm and chest. Shivered along already overheated flesh and whispered thoughts and suggestions he had no right to even be considering. Tendrils of heat pooled where it didn't belong. Truth trembled in his heart as he gave acknowledgment to a secret that shamed him as nothing else in this world could. He had no right to even be thinking about how easy it would be to stay with Raya and her unusual family.

He didn't have a right to walk away and start his life over in the northeastern city Raya called home. He had no right to think about being with someone who actually needed him for more than just a paycheck. He had no right to be thinking about walking away and never looking back. He had no right to be thinking about his own wants and his own needs. He had a son who needed him, who was out there waiting for him, and who he damn sure wasn't going to abandon just because he and Lori had hit a bad spot of road.

_Would things have been different if I had chosen to marry a woman like Raya_? He found himself wondering as he stared up at the intricately painted ceiling. _Would it have been easier to have been married to someone who understood how hard it was to be a husband, father, and cop_?

Once, he'd have answered that question with a firm and decisive _no_ , pointing out all the good times he and Lori had shared, and acknowledged that many of the problems between them were his fault. A part of him, though, a deep and dark part he had been suppressing the months before he had ended up in the hospital, had long since started to suspect that his marriage had hit the downward slide. The times when he and Lori had not been fighting about something or other had been rife with a burning type of silence he had come to especially hate. He flashed back to the day he had been shot. It was always that day that he returned too. More than a reminder, different from a memory.

_He is seated beside Shane in the police cruiser, finishing the last of a lunch he had not even wanted, but which he had consumed because his best friend would have questioned him about why he wasn't eating_. _His mood is somber, reflective, his heart weighed down by the thoughts rumbling around inside his head. He's uncomfortable with the turn their conversation has taken, not because he doesn't trust his best friend and partner with the truth, but because he is ashamed to admit it.._. _to admit that things have gotten so bad between him and Lori that he is considering leaving her_.

A small sound, almost a sob interrupted his dark musings. Rick glanced down at the woman who was asleep on the blankets spread out a few inches from his. Raya was resting but that was all she was doing. The grief and sorrow etched onto her face tore at his heart. Even having him right there beside her didn't seem to alleviate her anxiety and fear. Her body was primed, every muscle coiled and ready to respond to any threats that might come through the double doors. _And her brain_? The ghost of a smile crept over his lips. _I don't think you ever shut that thing off_.

Rick knew it wasn't a matter of her not trusting him enough, or believing that he wouldn't do everything in his power to keep her and her children safe. He knew it wasn't a matter of her feeling like she couldn't rely on him, or turn to him for emotional support or comfort. _No_ , he mused as he tugged the blanket she had kicked off with her restlessness back over her, _the simple answer is that the woman is a major control freak_. In the short amount of time in which he had known her, he had learned a lot about her. Ridiculously loyal, deeply passionate and stubborn as an ox were just three of the ways in which he would describe Raya Kean.

However, it was all of those things he had grown to admire and respect her the most for. With Raya, he never had to question whether or not she would have his back, be there to support him if things got a little hairy, or if he just needed a friend to quietly listen as he tried to work through and finally understand everything that had happened while he had been Rick Van Wrinkle. With Raya, things like trust, honor and respect were treated with the same reverence as some gave their religious beliefs. She was even more fanatical about upholding those things than some religious people he knew.

Her indomitable will, tough as nails attitude and refusal to say die even in the face of what frequently seemed like insurmountable odds were what helped her survive the nightmare their lives had become. Normal people would look at what they were having to contend with—random bands of walkers, social isolation, deprivation, having to lie, cheat and steal in order to survive, and the cold, hard reality that they could be the last humans left on the planet - and either run like hell in the opposite direction or take their own lives. It was what any rationally minded person living in this post-apocalyptic world would do.

Raya didn't hold with that belief, however. When the waters got a bit rough, she buckled down, dug down deep and faced the challenges being thrown at her with cool disdain, scorching derision and a whole lot more gumption and skill than he had initially imagined she possessed. There was nothing about Raya that was weak or cowardly. She didn't believe that the sun came up every morning just to hear her crow. She never asked him or her children to do something she wasn't willing to do herself. She waded into the shit without ever once making a qualm or fuss. She wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty, or step up and take responsibility, or admit when she was wrong.

_She would never say something vicious and cruel in front of Chris and Rose just to hurt me_.

Rick shook the thought off as he heard her release a shuddering breath. He had finally managed to learn how to read the subtle nuances and shifts that indicated what the contrary woman was thinking or feeling at any given moment. _She has been on edge since this morning._ What had caused her to become so agitated, he didn't know. Every time he asked her if she was okay, if everything was alright, she replied with a distracted and evasive, "Mhm."

He hadn't believed her then, and he believed her even less, now. Something had disturbed her, shaken her. All afternoon she kept alternating between watching the horizon and studying the ground. It was almost as if she expected an attack. _From who, though_? He wondered. _Who did she fear coming after her_? It wasn't walkers, that much was for damn sure. It disturbed him when Raya's face took on a haunted, hunted look. Whatever it was she feared, she feared it — _them_ , he corrected as he reached out to set a hand on her side, even while asleep.

_Who is after you?_ He asked her silently. _Tell me and I will stop them._

_I promise._

It was a promise he intended, come hell or high water, to keep.


	25. Chapter 25

**Metropolis**

**Day 65 (Midnight)**

Standing at the large windows of his lavish office, Luthor overlooked the dark city of Metropolis as he contemplated his early morning meeting with the Quinn woman. He was under no foolishly misguided notion about their meeting being anything other than an elaborately concocted smoke screen. One intended to hide whatever the true agenda the petite blonde woman had come here with. What exactly Quinn came here to do, what she was after, he could not say. Predictable was not a word he could apply to a woman as demented and volatile as Harley Quinn.

He suspected her main purpose had been to gain access to his files and information. It would explain why she so willingly offered up Robin as proof of her willingness to help him acquire Christopher Kent and his mother. His inherently suspicious mind took over once his delighted surprise at having a weapon he could use wore off. He started to question, to wonder about how it was she managed to capture Robin and smuggle him from Gotham without Wayne knowing or following. Where are Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl? Where were the little Titans? The Justice League? Wayne would never allow the kidnapping of Robin. Not without making an attempt at getting him back.

And why was Robin making no attempt to free himself from the clutches of a woman tied to Batman's arch nemesis anyway?

Those questions, along with dozens of others, began to tickle his brain as he sat there conversing with Quinn. The piles of data about Batman and his band of feathered helpers stored in his subconscious played in a loop, reminding him about how dangerous a force Wayne could be when in costume or out. Everything led him to believe Quinn was not there for her stated purpose of helping him. So that begged him to wonder one thing: why _was_ she here? _Are you working with Wayne willingly, Miss Quinn_? He mused as he stared at the vacant streets below. _Or are you looking to feather your own nest by ferrying the boy to Dr. Kean_? Of the two possibilities, he believed the second more likely than the latter. _Quinn is not a woman who would ever do anything without it somehow serving either hers or that demented boyfriend's, purposes_.

Silk rustled and interrupted his nocturnal musings. The sound was a pleasant reminder of how he was not alone in his late-night vigil. His ever-loyal assistant, Mercy Graves, stood a few inches to his right, and a couple of steps behind him, just as she always did. A small smile tugged at his lips as he studied the dark-haired woman in the polished glass. With her hair piled up in a severe bun, her horn-rimmed glasses pushed up on her pert nose and with her ever-present clipboard clutched to her chest, Graves appeared as nothing more than a corporate executive trying to keep up the illusion it was still business as always. Only Luthor knew the Asian woman was far more than just some overworked businesswoman.

Trained in multiple fighting disciplines, skilled in using dozens of weapons, and capable of concocting explosive devices from just about anything she could get her pretty little hands on, Graves was a more than competent and efficient bodyguard. Not that he had any real need for a personal bodyguard here inside his corporate lair. None, save for Wayne and a select few of his Justice League compatriots would dare to attack him here. Even if they did try to ambush him inside his fortress, he had measures in place designed to prevent even a man with the fortitude and prowess of Wayne from reaching him.

He turned his head towards Graves but said nothing to her. Silence, as he had learned, was a more useful intimidation tactic than a hundred other types of threats he could think of. Of course, with someone like Graves, the tactic was completely wasted. Nothing he said or did would penetrate the woman's hard exterior shell. He suspected she could be drenched in sulfuric acid, have hot pokers stuck in her eyes and still remain cool as a cucumber. He let the silence continue for another ten seconds out of a perverse amusement. Finally, he spoke.

"Has Dr. Jenkins been located?"

"Yes, sir," Graves replied in a lightly accented voice. "He was found bound and gagged inside a storage cabinet located right outside his office."

"And was he knocked unconscious and bound and gagged or had he been drugged with whatever sedative our little intruder brought with him?"

"He was bound and gagged," Graves confirmed with a slight nod. "However, Dr. Sorenson says there were trace elements of Temazepam in Dr. Jenkins system."

"A large dose?"

"Large enough to knock a man of your robust physical countenance unconscious for several hours, yes."

Luthor made a low, speculative hum deep in his throat. "So," he murmured thoughtfully. "Quinn and her little helper came ready for whatever they thought they might meet here."

"It would seem so, sir."

"And we have no idea what, if anything, said between him and Robin before he drugged Jenkins?"

"Not at this moment, no." Graves reached up to adjust her spectacles. "Jenkins has no memory of the altercation and Sorenson says he may never have one."

"Have you found out what it was that Robin and Quinn were here for?"

"Not yet."

Luthor hid a smile. Graves didn't waste time on flowery speeches or drawn out explanations. She had earned his respect simply because she didn't waste time on making up pretty excuses or telling him colorfully outrageous lies. _If only the rest of the people in my employ were as wise and as dedicated to doing their jobs as Mercy_ …

Turning towards his desk, Luthor picked up a file and flipped it open to study the photographs contained inside. The plan he put into motion over three decades before was steadily unraveling right before his very eyes. Everything rest now upon the thin shoulders of the boy staring up at him from the dozens of glossy images he managed to collect over the last twelve years. Christopher Kent was the only living human-Kryptonian meta-hybrid at that time. Inside the boy lay all the answers he needed to decipher the Kryptonian genome.

Acquiring the boy, extracting that information he so desperately needed from his very marrow should have been easy. Thanks to one exceptionally prideful and stubborn woman who could not understand that she had no choice but to heed his demands, her equally obnoxious and interfering family members, and Superman himself, his every attempt at getting his hands upon a sample of the boy's blood had met with failure. Raya Kean had started to cause him nothing but an endless amount of vexation and hardship.

All of his time spent on meticulously planning every moment, every outcome, ensuring every little detail would occur as intended and lead to the next step of his plan, undone.

All of the risks he had taken, all the favors he had called in, all the people he had befriended to see to it that his plans for creating a élite army would come to fruition, wasted.

All of the political palms he greased, the eyes he convinced to look the other way while he cloned an army that would obliterate anything that got in its way, the subtle threats he had used on those who offered resistance, the people he had blackmailed to get the information he needed, unnecessary.

All of his hopes and dreams for an army that could not only take out any opposing enemy forces, but fight these undead beings without worry of contamination, infection, or concern for their losses, broken.

He, Lex Luthor, had been about to revolutionize the world, to give it the safety and protection that it desperately needed, and demanded. He had been on the verge of becoming a God among what remained of humanity. His super army would have guaranteed him being named as the ruler of the new world. If he could just manage to get his hands on the Kent boy, he would have everything he wanted and more. Not even Wayne would be able to stop him then. He would be the most powerful man on the planet and all would bow to him if he could but get his hands on Christopher Kent. And he would manage to do so if not for one small, slip of a woman so staunchly opposing him at every turn.

It was positively humiliating.

It was absolutely unconscionable.

It was not something a man with his very long and storied reputation could allow.

_The woman needs to learn her rightful place in the world_.

Luthor tossed the file on his desk, watching as the photographs spilled across the polished surface through narrowed eyes. _It is time_ , he decided, _for me to up the stakes_. He needed to make it so that the foolish woman had no choice but to bring her son to him. _And just who do I know that is capable of making sure that happens_? He mused as he turned to again stare out the windows at the world that was his for the taking. He was the suitable choice for this job. He was the only man he knew Kean to actively fear. Hadn't she moved to Georgia to get away from the man?

"Graves, I have a special job for you." He glanced over at her. In the shadows, her dark eyes shined with expectation and excitement. "I want you to see if you can find a way to contact Slade Wilson."

"And what is it that you wish me to tell him if I make contact with him?"

"Tell him that I have obtained some information that I think he will most definitely want to hear for himself."

"Yes, sir," came the woman's anticipated reply. "Will there be anything else before I try to make contact with Wilson?"

"Hm, yes, there is one more thing I want you to do before you contact Wilson." Luthor took a seat at his desk. "Tell Hassam that I want to speak with him. I have a job for him."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"And leave word for Jenkins that I wish to speak with him just as soon as he has recovered from his attack."

"As you wish."

...

**Gotham City Morgue**

**Day 65 (after midnight)**

"He's just as dangerous dead as he was when he was alive," Gordon said in a subdued voice. He slid his hands deep into his pockets while he stood watching as flames brighter than the midday sun slowly consumed the skeletal body once belonging to the man known throughout Gotham as the Clown Prince of Crime. _The_ former _Clown Prince of Crime_ , Jim corrected as he released a shaky breath. _He's not the King of anything but ashes now_.

"He's not a danger anymore, Jim," he heard the dark figure standing beside him rasp. "Tonight? Tonight his criminal reign came to an end. It's over. He's finished."

"Is it over?" The veteran detective couldn't keep the niblets of doubt out of his voice. "Or has the son of a bitch somehow found another way to escape the hands of Death?"

"No." Batman shifted slightly. The flames cast him even more in shadow, something Gordon didn't imagine to even be possible. "This time he is dead."

Gordon instantly noted how his tone lacked any inflection whatsoever. If the caped crusader found solace in finally being free of the Joker's clutches, he could find no hint of it in that throaty rasp. "He's not coming back. Not this time."

"Look, I'm sorry I am skeptic-"

"But?"

There was a small bit of wry humor in that voice. Gordon merely grunted.

"But I will believe that the son of a bitch is well and truly dead when he doesn't suddenly pop up, laughing that damn laugh of his and unleashing some sort of new diabolical plan upon the city."

"He's dead, Jim." Batman set a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Leave it at that."

Gordon turned to watch as that large silhouette slithered across the tile floor, crept along the walls, over the ceiling. It never ceased to amaze him at how gracefully a man as large as Batman could move. He made barely a sound as he crossed to the exit. Before he reached the door, Batman stopped and turned to look back at him. In the glow of the flames, those electric eyes reflected a bleak, hopelessness Gordon had only seen one other time. _Is it as bad as all that, old friend_? He silently asked the grim hero. _Is there no hope left in this world_? _Is there no chance at all that we will manage to survive this mess_? Gordon refused to believe that, to accept that this was the end for humanity. _So long as we are here, and we are still fighting, there will always be a chance that we will survive and live to see the world recover from what has happened_.

"No more pranks," he heard Batman rasp. "No more tricks. No more laughs. He has finally told his last joke." He made to turn, to leave, but something compelled him to look back at the body slowly being consumed by flame. "I should have saved him. I should have saved all of them."

_So that's the way of it_ , Gordon thought with a soft sigh. _He's seeing how everything that is going on in the city is his fault_. Well, he'd absolve him of that ridiculous belief right quick enough.

"I know you are blaming yourself for his death." Gordon took off his glasses and stuck them in a small case he produced from a pocket inside his trench-coat. "Don't. You're not to blame for what happened to the Joker. Or for what has happened to anyone since this entire mess started."

"Who else is there to blame, Jim?"

It wasn't a growl. The Dark Knight just sounded like he was beyond exhausted. Who wasn't pushed beyond their physical and mental limits, though? They had been burning both ends of the candle for months now.

"How about you blame the Joker for one?" Gordon spoke a bit more sharply than he intended and regretted it instantly. "Look, I-"

"It's okay, Jim. I understand what you are trying to say."

_And clearly don't agree with me about it_ , Gordon thought as he crossed over to where Batman lurked by the exit.

"Do you?" He set a hand upon one stiff shoulder. "Do you understand why you can't allow yourself to feel even a second's remorse for the Joker's death? For any of their deaths?"

"Why," he began but Gordon cut him off.

" _You_ did _your_ job." He squeezed that stooped shoulder. "You can't be expected to have done more than you have. Nobody else has done as much for this city as you."

"Have I done everything that I could?" There was an edge now to his voice warning Gordon about how low the Dark Knight was emotionally. "I stand between the people of Gotham and the evil trying to overrun it. And," his voice dropped to barely a whisper, "I have failed to keep them safe from this new evil threatening them."

"You are not omnipotent," Gordon informed him brusquely. "There is a limit to how far you can go and how much you can do."

"Batman shouldn't have a limit, though."

"You are not a machine, no matter how much you try to pretend that you are one."

Batman's jaw muscles twitched, a clear sign at just how tight a rein he had over himself at that moment.

"We had better hope I never reach my breaking point then."

Gordon suspected the man had already reached it. That's why he said, "You stopped these monsters before they could hurt any more people. In the end, that's all we can do. It's terrible, and I know it doesn't really help make the guilt any easier to swallow, but it's the truth. We can't save everyone. And the Joker?" He looked again at the crematory that had been working overtime for the past few months. "He didn't want you to save him. He didn't want your help."

"I know."

Gordon felt that broad shoulder droop down another couple of inches. He swallowed down his rising worry, knowing the younger man wouldn't appreciate it. _Can't dad-mode him like I can our kids_. What he could do, however, was tell the Dark Knight what he needed most to hear: the truth.

"The Joker infected himself with blood he took from infected people because he hoped to infect _you_." He saw that head shift, read the question burning in the depths of those eyes. Why was the Joker the way he was? Neither of them knew. "He couldn't let go of his demented desire to see you brought down to his level. His dying wish was to turn you into what he was: a killer."

"He told me before he turned that my corruption was his final gift to me and the people of Gotham."

Gordon could well imagine the maniacal fiend gleefully confessed his plans to turn the city's silent guardian into a mindless murderer.

"The Joker was nothing but a cold-blooded killer." In the end, it was the only explanation that worked. "One who escaped the hands of justice more times than he should have and who ruined more lives than either of us can count."

"I know that, Jim."

"He lived as he died." Gordon ran a hand over the back of his head. "Can't say I'm gonna lose any more sleep over the likes of him."

"You sound like Fenix." There was a small, wistful note inside that dark rasp. Gordon heard it, understood it, but did not acknowledge it. Even here, inside the crematory, they could never drop the pretenses. "She often tells me how men like the Joker pay for the sins they committed when they stand on the other side and face whoever is their judge."

Gordon could well imagine what their girl's thoughts would be about the death of the Joker.

"We all have to answer for the wrongs we've committed in our lifetimes. Him, included."

"That we do." Batman gave a slight nod of his cowled head. "Answering for our sins and atoning for them is a necessity. Especially in this new world we are living in. There are lots of good people who are going to have to do bad things out of necessity."

Gordon remained silent for a few moments. Finally, he said, "Yanno, if the Fenix was here, she would tell you how Batman is still a necessity."

He did not smile, but Gordon saw a slight softening of his lips. "Her opinion is rather biased, Jim."

"Yes." The veteran detective gave a short nod of his head. "That it is." He smiled. "It's biased because she tends to hold you in very high regard."

_You are every inch her father_ , he told him silently. _Same as I am_.

"I know she does." Again there was a faint wistful note to that dark rasp. "I know she holds me in very high regard."

"Fenix has always believed in you. She has always supported what you and Batman stand for."

"What does Batman stand for now, Jim?" The question hung in the air between them for several seconds. "What is it that he can do? He is useless against the undead."

"Batman stands for the same thing he has always stood for," Gordon stated firmly. " _Hope_."

"The Fenix stands for hope," Batman corrected in a hard whisper. "She's the symbol of hope and redemption."

"Yes, she is," Gordon agreed. "But you are the symbol for a city that needs something to believe in. Especially now when it feels like all hope has been lost. They look to you and see that there is still a chance they will survive."

"People no longer need a dramatic example to shake them from their apathy," was Batman's gravelly reply. "They don't need Batman to swing in and rescue them from whatever bad guy is trying to attack them. They need the help of people they can see, who they know they can trust and count upon to help them get through this ordeal. I can't give that to them dressed as Batman."

"The people of this city need to know they are still protected by their silent guardian."

"There is little that I can do for them, Jim."

"The world may have gone to hell, the undead may have risen, but there are three things the people of this city know to count on: this is Gotham, it is corrupt, and you will always be there to save them."

"My service to Gotham has come at the cost of my family." The words were tersely uttered and fraught with every one of the regrets of a father who felt like he failed to protect his family. "You have all suffered for my choices, for my decisions, and for my mistakes."

Jim gave a slow shake of his head. "No," he denied softly. "I don't believe that. I won't ever believe that."

"Jim-"

"Go on home," Gordon ordered gently. "You've done enough for one night." He looked back at the slowly dying flames. "I'll finish things up here."

There was a pregnant pause. Then, "Are you sure?"

"Positive." He walked to the controls. "Besides, we need you ready to leave in case Robin runs into trouble."

"I am sure Red Robin will be capable of helping Robin get them out of whatever fix they get into, Jim."

Gordon made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a chuckle. _Should have known he'd have figured out who convinced the boy to go after our girl_. He turned his head, intending to explain why he had supported such a move, but he found he was all alone in the crematorium. He grunted softly.

"He hasn't been doing that lately."


	26. Chapter 26

**Gotham**

After midnight. The time he once found perfect for hunting. The dredges and scum who preyed upon Gotham preferred the cool silence and moist darkness. And until the rise of the undead _he_ had preyed upon those very predators, utilizing the very shadows and silence they so loved to his advantage. On the nights his memories and regrets threatened to tear him apart, when he thought he would be driven mad by the ghosts haunting his opulent mansion and the dark caves below, he took to the streets of Gotham — to watch, to hunt, to _protect_.

This had been his chosen method of dealing with his emotions for over two decades now. He should go and help weed Poison Ivy from her deluxe hot house hideout. Or searching for the reanimated corpses of the Penguin, Two-Face, and Mad Hatter. Instead of returning to the Batcave after he left Gordon at the morgue, he had chosen to come here, to the roof of the old GCPD building in the old Burnley District, to the place where everything changed after he answered arequest for aid from an eight-year-old girl.

He turned to walk to where the remnants of an old klieg spotlight sat without making a sound. He reached out to trace the remnants of rusted wrought-iron, remembering the look of the crude bat-shaped emblem Raya had made from a piece of printer paper as it shined upon the night sky. Her ingenuity inspired a light that would tell the criminal underbelly they were no longer safe and protected from the hands of justice.

That Christmas Eve was also the first time he met the Clown Prince of Crime. A part of him had known even then how the feud between him and Joker would end in one of their deaths. Their rivalry wasn't one that would allow for anything other than death to end it. It was another reason for why he continued to spare the life of the masochistic killer. Jason was wrong when he accused him of not being able to kill the Joker because he couldn't give up his golden rule.

He could murder the clown and he knew it. It was not even a matter of refusing to allow himself to become the killer the Joker wanted him to become. He simply refused to give the demented clown the easy way out. Even after everything the Joker had done, to him, to his children, to this city, he refused to allow him the luxury, the privilege of death. He would have stopped him tonight had the clown not found the one way – the only way – to prevent him from doing so. Unbidden, memories forced themselves upon his conscious mind, taunting him in the clown's lubricious voice, and laughing at him in his high-pitched cackle.

_He sees again the explosion ripping apart a dilapidated warehouse in the middle of the Ethiopian desert. Serpentine tendrils of smoke and flame slither towards the starless sky in a macabre dance that makes his fear and worry increase twofold. He is running as fast as he can towards that burning building, every second three beats of his heart. He can hear his breath rasping in his ears, feels it forming icy balls in his chest. He crests a dune and stumbles to a halt, a scream lodged in his throat as he sees nothing but mangled steel and burning rubble. His eyes sweep the area desperately for a glimpse of pale skin, dark hair or the familiar red, green and yellow body armor Jason wore._

_"Jason!" He shouts as he all but flies across the distance between him and that smoldering tomb. "Jason, I'm coming! Hold on!"_

_He tears through the debris like a madman, grief and anger and fear lending him almost inhuman strength. He throws a piece of siding out of his way and there is Jason, his still warm body limp as a rag, his eyes closed, as if in sleep…_

His breath hissed out from between clenched teeth as he tried to push those thoughts and emotions back into his subconscious and failed. _That night was my fault_ , he silently admitted as the never gone guilt and regret caused his belly to pitch and heave. _I got Jason killed. I own that. I always have owned that. And I'll carry it like I carry everything else that has happened to one of them. It's my fault for not realizing, not suspecting, not knowing Jason was in immense danger. I should have seen what the Joker was planning. I should have known what he wanted to do. The writing was always on the wall. I failed to see it. And I failed Jason because of it. I failed him as a father. Failed him as Batman. I failed him by letting the Joker get his hands on him. And I failed him again when the Joker was able to get his hands on him tonight_.

Only, tonight did not end like the last time. Tonight the Joker didn't get what he wanted. He did not corrupt Batman by again causing the death of Jason Todd. _Batman_ failed tonight so that _Bruce Wayne_ could save the son he so horribly failed all those years ago. And yet he felt empty, hollowed out. Even knowing he had not made the same mistake twice did not boost his flagging spirits. What emotions throbbed inside him were heavy and cold, and coated ten inches thick with guilt and grief.

Pain rippled across his chest as he stepped closer to the edge of the roof. He knew bruises were already spreading, creeping black over his skin. Alfred would sigh and lament over each. Batman to pain, though. It was as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Alfred told him once he needed to "know his limits." He had replied at the time about Batman having "no limits." He couldn't afford to have limits. There were too many people counting on him to stop the criminals from overrunning their city. There were too many innocents who needed him to stand between them and the forces of evil constantly trying to consume them in their greed and madness.

He accepted his choice to don the cape and cowl. He understood the risks and took what precautions he could to protect himself physically as well as mentally. When he donned the cape and cowl, assumed his identity as Gotham's Caped Crusader, he became more than Bruce Wayne. As Batman, he was powerful, capable of effecting change and making Gotham just a bit safer for her people. His goals today were the same as when he first donned this suit — to help Gotham's desperate populace get out from underneath the rule of the criminals threatening to swallow them whole.

No matter how much this city had wounded him, no matter that the people he loved got caught in the eye of the storm he helped to create, he loved this city. He still believed in what Gotham could become, in the potential that it possessed, and in her people, themselves. He would continue to do what he could to help — either by utilizing the fortune he had amassed as Bruce Wayne or the skills he had acquired as Batman – the city and its people survive this plague.

He just didn't know how Batman could be of use against people who did not respond to either blunt force or coldly delivered logic. His chosen methods of dealing with predators were useless against the bands of infected roaming Gotham's cobblestone streets. To be the hero the city needed; deserved would require him to step into that morally ambiguous area Jason had been walking since his resurrection. It was not something he could consider.

He already failed when he hadn't figured out that something Flash did in the past had caused a time rift. _I should have realized that people are slowly being poisoned by the particles of energy that are leaking out of the entry points he created_. He hadn't though. Why? Because those limits he long denied, claimed could not exist for someone like him had been reached. There was a limit to what Batman could do by himself, to the number of people that he could save on his own, the number of bad guys he could fight by himself and the number of problems he could solve.

He turned to prowl, much like a jungle cat stalking its prey through the tangled vines and dense greenery of the Amazonian rain forest to the opposite side of the roof. The soft rustle of cloth broke through his dark musings. His body stiffened, gathering together in an automatic response to a potential threat. He only relaxed when he heard a voice like velvet, soft and warm, call out to him.

"Batman?"

He turned and beheld a woman dressed in the battle armor of the Amazonian race. _Diana_ , he thought even as his heart twisted in his chest.

"What are you doing in Gotham?" It wasn't a growl. He just sounded as exhausted as he felt. "I thought you returned home to help your people?"

"I did return to Themyscira." She allowed the roof access door to fall shut behind her before crossing the roof towards him. "But I journeyed here to Gotham after receiving word Robin had been kidnapped by Harley Quinn." Her lips curved into a warm, affectionate smile. "You can imagine my surprise at learning you not only approved of your youngest son's kidnapping." Her eyes flickered briefly with a hint of that feminine mischief he always found so charming. "You were the one to orchestrate it."

A thin beam of light fell on her as she stepped closer, giving him a good look at her. And what he saw alarmed him. Her hair and armor were covered in a slimy substance, her cheeks and forehead smudged with what looked like mud, she had thin scratches on her throat and arms and there were bits of things on her boots he couldn't readily identify.

"Why do you look like you've taken a dip in Gotham Harbor?"

"It was the Gotham sewers, actually."

Surprise flickered at hearing she was in the Gotham Sewers. "Why were you in the sewers?"

"I wanted to keep my presence in the city a secret." She pushed at her wet hair. "Now, care to tell me why you had Harley Quinn abduct Robin?"

"It was the only way to get Robin out of the city without it causing suspicion." He stifled a sigh. "We can't afford to alert either Slade Wilson or Luthor to our moves."

"I thought Oliver confirmed Slade Wilson was still locked in his cell on Lian Yu?"

Only her eyes reflected her deep concern. He could understand why it bothered her to learn that a man with Slade Wilson's extreme skill and fighting capabilities was free. Even he had to admit that Slade Wilson was a dangerous adversary. The former ASIS Agent had given him more than a challenge the only time they squared off.

"Oliver did confirm he was still in his cell," he explained. "However, there was a breakout at the prison a few days ago and Wilson is one of those confirmed to have escaped."

He saw that dismay and unease triple at that revelation. "Has Slade Wilson been spotted here in the States?"

"There was a man bearing Wilson's description in Blüdhaven about a week ago," he confirmed. "Yes."

"And is the person doing the confirming one of your protégé?" Her lips crooked upwards at the corners. "The Red Hood, in fact?"

He ignored her question, figuring the answer an obvious one, and asked instead, "Diana, why are you in Gotham?"

…

He looked dramatic. Mysterious. Dark and dangerous. Full of anger and turmoil. And just a bit sad and lonely. Diana knew he would refuse any offer of comfort or sympathy, deny what he was feeling and wave off any concerns she might have about his well-being. However, she knew full well that there was a man underneath that cowl, beneath that suit, who keenly felt for the people and city that he loved. People and a city that he risked his life every night to protect. And he was hurting; physically as well as emotionally. No matter how badly he might want comfort, she knew he would never consent to it.

_You and that damned pride of yours won't allow yourself to accept any sort of comfort_. No matter. She wasn't in the mood to ask or wait for his consent. She stopped in front of him and tilted her head to the side to get a better look at his face. There were scratches and bruises along his jaw and cheeks, but it appeared unharmed otherwise. Impulsively, she laid her palm on his cheek, felt the muscle that ticked in his jaw. It was the only outward sign she had for how tight a rein he was keeping over himself at that moment.

"I am here because you need my help." It wasn't a complete lie she told herself. Clark had come to Themyscira to tell her Robin had been abducted by Harley Quinn. And he _had_ said that Bruce could use her help. "I'm here because you need a friend."

_I'm here because you need me_. She didn't say that out loud, though. Their relationship had long been a complicated one. Mostly because Bruce made it that way with his belief that he didn't deserve happiness.

"I'm fine, Diana."

She looked him up and down, saw the myriad of cuts, burns, and bruises that peeked through the holes in his suit. She knew that there were probably a dozen more far more serious injuries beneath that suit that required immediate medical attention. But he'd ignore his body's needs and demands until he couldn't ignore them any longer. She fisted her hands on her hips.

"Well." She kept her tone light. "For fine, you look absolutely terrible."

…

Only Diana and Raya tended to tell him when he looked awful. Only they could. And that was because of the unique relationship he shared with each woman. However, where Raya was given a certain amount of leeway because she was a daughter, Diana had earned the right to call him out by being a friend he could always count on when the cards were all on the table. She was more than a friend, really. Still, there were limits to even what she could get away with.

"This is not a good time to tease me, Diana."

"If not now, when?"

He tried to read her thoughts but found the language both foreign and frustrating. He studied her face, tried to gauge her emotions but nothing showed on her flawless face but a bone-deep weariness that he understood all too well. When he'd first seen her standing there by the access door, he'd been staggered. And overwhelmed by a strange urge to be stroked and held, soothed and comforted. He chalked his reaction up to exhaustion as much as the close personal relationship he had with her. He had known the Amazonian Princess for a little over two decades now. They had traveled hundreds of miles, fought dozens of battles and seen each other through some trying times.

Seeing her, smelling that unique scent that was hers and hers alone, stirred up all the memories inside him, churning them with fresh spurts of longing, need. _Love_. He loved Diana in a way he had never been able to allow himself before. And that was another root, one of the many tangled roots, between them. There was too much between them, too much of them to allow anything more than what was between them now.

"Diana…"

"Don't you dare." She said it softly, but there was an edge of steel to the words that he knew all too well. "Don't you dare tell me that you don't feel the same way I do."

"It's-"

"Bruce, you are many things but a coward is not one of them."

Raw, powerful emotions pumped into his system like a fast-acting drug. He was edgy, his nerve endings scraped raw. He could feel… too much, and was waiting for his system to simply implode. He let out a ragged breath. _Stubborn, prideful, ridiculously loyal woman,_ he thought, then sighed. Those were the things he admired the most about her. Pride and tenacity were hard not to admire when it was something that you, yourself possessed in great abundance. But she had still taken a risk—a huge risk in fact, by coming here to Gotham.

"Diana..." He trailed off into a frustrated sigh. Give him a broken piece of machinery, a complex chemical compound, a body left in a back alley and he would know what to do in an instant. He wasn't any good at dealing with his personal wants and needs, and she knew it.

"The truth, Bruce."

Leave it to Diana Prince to toss down a gauntlet she knew he couldn't; wouldn't ignore. _Facing the Joker has always been easier than dealing with my feelings for her_ , he thought as he pondered what to say. After a moment's indecision, he spoke, going for simple and honest since it was what she deserved.

"No matter what we feel for each other, no matter how much we might want to give into our feelings, we cannot. The same reasons still apply for why we can't cross that boundary."

…

Diana listened to him in silence. When he finished she turned away, her heart aching and her soul just a bit sadder than it had been when she joined him on the roof. It was the same thing he said the last time she suggested they give into their feelings for each other. She couldn't deny that there was not some truth and logic to his words. There would always be obstacles tossed in front of them that would make being together difficult. Others had managed to find a way, though.

_We could die tomorrow without ever once admitting to the other how we feel_ , she thought as she breathed in the familiar smells — salt air, water, smog — of Gotham City. Along with those familiar scents, though, came the pungent stench of pus, rotting flesh, and garbage. She looked to the horizon and saw nothing but darkness interspersed with glowing orange balls. The people of Gotham had learned to use the same darkness as their caped hero. In this new world, silence and the safety of the shadows were the only way to survive. There was a rustle of sound and suddenly he was there behind her, touching, but not touching her.

"Diana…"

"I'm not willing to accept that answer, Bruce." She couldn't. Not when the future was so uncertain. "Not this time."

"Why are you pursuing this now?" There was an edge to his voice that warned her he was reaching the end of even his considerable amount of patience. "What has changed?"

"Everything has changed." She looked back and saw he was watching her with a shuttered expression. It meant he was listening to everything she said and analyzing it. _Ever the detective_ , she thought fondly. "The world has changed. We could die tomorrow. It makes the reasons for why we shouldn't be together no longer apply."

"Yes, they-"

"No, they do not." She turned back to him. "We've been fighting our feelings for so long and for what reason? Because we _could_ be hurt? Because we _could_ end being attacked by one of the others enemies? Haven't we already been hurt by denying ourselves this opportunity? By depriving ourselves of what our hearts desire?"

"Our enemies would still target us."

"Haven't our enemies come after us in plenty of other ways?" _Hasn't the Joker gone after your children to hurt you?_ She didn't say that aloud. There was no need to dredge up his past. Or remind him of the plethora of times in which one of his children had been hurt by the cruel machinations of the Joker. "I'd rather spend whatever time we might have left upon Earth with you rather than pining for you and what might have been."

He did touch her then. Just a sweep of his gloved fingers along the back of her arm. "Don't you think I want that? Don't you think I want to give into my feelings?"

"Then why don't you?"

"You know why."

She shook her head. "It's not the Joker or Luthor or Darkseid who could kill us now. It's innocent people infected with something we have no way to cure."

Bruce made a faint rumbling sound in his throat. She assumed he was getting ready to tell her again that it could never be, that they could never be, but he cut it short and nodded. If anything, he just looked overwhelmed. Not that was all that surprising. Bruce kept his emotions in small jars wrapped with chains that he buried inside the walls of his cave. He didn't know where exactly to start with opening up and talking about how he felt. But she would show him. Slowly.

Finally, he said, "Are you where Raya got her stubborn streak from?"

"Please." Diana snorted. "She acquired that indomitable will from you."

He made a sound, near a low hum, deep in his throat. "Jason does call her my perfect soldier."

"No." Diana set her hand against his cheek. "She's just your daughter, Bruce."


	27. Chapter 27

**Quarry Camp**

_Day 67 (Late night)_

Merle spotted the chopstick between his brother's fingers as he returned from taking a leak. He knew who the goddamn thing belonged too. _Miss Prissy._ He didn't know how Daryl came to possess the damn thing and he didn't rightly care. All he knew was that it kept him from screwing his brother's head back on straight.

"Goddamn woman ain't even here," he grumbled as he stalked over to his bedroll, "and she still causin' my ass to itch."

What exactly his baby brother saw in the smart-mouthed bitch, he didn't know. Women were only good for three things in Merle Dixon's long-standing opinion: cookin', cleanin' and seein' to a man's baser needs. _And lil' Miss Priss weren't even satisfyin' the most important of my brother's needs_. At least, Merle didn't _think_ the uppity bitch was actually felicitating his brother's piece. The truth was he couldn't really prove that any hanky-panky had been going on between the two of them.

By the time he caught up with his brother they had made camp in the survivor community run by Major Dickhead. Prissy normally slept with her brats and that white mutt while Daryl either slept on the porch or with him in the living room. The only time the two had ever been alone was when his brother allowed Prissy to take a patrol with him. And even then they had Major Dickhead or one of his men watching their every move. _So when the hell could they have found the time to go to the boneyard_?

Merle contemplated that while retrieving a bottle of rotgut from his pack _._ A part of him wondered if why his brother was so hell-bent on finding the uppity bitch was because the ass was that good. _Or maybe it was that he hadn't gotten any_. A frown creased his brow as he worked that possibility through his alcohol-soaked brain. Had lil' Miss Priss been holding out on his brother? Gettin' him to do her biddin' by promisin' he could storm the cotton gin once he got her and them rugrats somewhere safe? It was the sorta move he expected from a woman like Priss. Didn't he learn about what a deceitful, lyin', manipulative piece of fuzz she was on that last night they were all together?

...

**Residential community outside Blue Ridge, GA**

_Day 59_

"Leave him to drink himself into another stupor and pass out in whatever hole he finds to crawl in."

Merle swallowed a laugh along with more of this pisswater masquerading as beer. _Sure don't like me none, do you, Prissy_? _Well, ole Merle don't mind, and you sure as shit don't matter_. _At least_ , he silently clarified as he leaned a hip against his brother's old beat-up pick-up and watched Prissy turn those big ole green eyes of hers on his brother. _You don't mean a hill of beans to me, sugar tits_.

Now his baby brother on the other hand? Yeah, man, Daryl was well and truly wrapped around the woman's long, elegant finger. Hell, even he had to admit that her pretty lil', "Please," had tantalizing shivers cruisin' along his clammy skin. He knew how to handle a woman like Priss, though. He had taught many of his past paramour about what the consequences of using their feminine wiles on him were.

His sainted baby brother wouldn't hear of taking a hand to the bitch, though. All of his _suggestions_ for how Daryl could put Priss in her proper place were met with outright rejection. She had managed to somehow sink her manicured claws deep into his baby brother, twisting him inside out and makin' him act like some lovesick fool. The woman was nothing but a shapely pile of trouble. Hell, all women were bad news in his opinion. This one, though, was just especially bothersome because he hadn't found a way to get rid of her. _All those years I spent making a man outta you and for what_? Merle thought bitterly. _So you can sit and beg for a scrap of affection from some piece of fuzz_?

"Please, Daryl," Priss said again. "Let's just go inside."

"Well, now, don't you say please so sweet it just melts on the tongue, plum bottom." Though his words weren't slurred, they tasted bitter on his tongue. He cracked another beer and drank them away while eyeing the petite woman standing beside his baby brother. "You whisper please before or after you wet my brother's piece with that purty lil' mouth of yours?"

Priss's face tightened with fury and she shifted half towards him but it was Daryl who spoke, not her.

"I done told you to shut it, Merle." His brother again coming to the bitch's defense grated on Merle's already frayed nerves. And made his mouth, already set to rapid-fire, keep right on firing off taunts and barbs.

"Yeah, man, I betcha just ride my little brother into one helluva sweat." His lips crooked upwards at the angry glint in Priss's eyes. "See, you may pretend you some classy piece of peach fuzz but ole Merle here? He done know better. Yes, sirree," he said as he raised the bottle and took another long pull. "I know how your kind likes screwin' us dirty hillbilly's." He shot her a leering grin. "Does rolling around in the mud get you all hot and bothered, angel tits?"

Daryl hissed out a curse and went to vault the railing but Priss's hand on his arm stopped him. Seeing her control over his brother had Merle's teeth gnashing. _Goddamn, pussy whipped._ He was about to tell his brother that when Prissy choose to flap her gums.

"If I am screwing around with your brother is, frankly, none of your business, Merle."

The words were said in that autocratic tone she used when she'd reached the end of her patience with him. That was good. That was great. He wanted her good and pissed off. Merle finished off his beer and tossed the bottle in the bushes lining the front walk.

"Hell, I don't care about what y'all do behind closed doors-"

"Then why even bother bringing it up?" She tossed back her head and sent him a look that would have frozen ice cubes. "Why bother to stand there and run your brother down, call him nothing but a dirty hillbilly if you don't care about what he is doing and who he might be doing it with?"

"Why don't you tell me since you got all the damn answers?"

"Because you do care, that's why." Her mouth thinned into a cold, hard-line. "I think it eats you alive that I actually prefer Daryl to you."

It was the damned truth. It did gall him that she could bat them pretty lil' eyes, whisper all those soft lil' pleases and rub that tight lil' body up against his brother's while spurning his every advance. Not that he'd tell her that. Hell no. Sooner cut his hand off than admit the bitch was right. _As always_ , he thought as he shoved away from the truck and prowled towards the front steps.

"You only prefer my baby brother 'cause you got him wrapped around your little finger."

"Is that what you think? That I have Daryl wrapped around my finger?" She barked a laugh. "You couldn't be more wrong, Merle."

"All you gotta do is snap your fingers and he comes running," Merle said. "Like he's your bitch or somethin'."

"Hell, you say," Daryl growled before he went to vault the railing again. "I ain't nobody's bitch."

"Goddamn pussy whipped is what you are."

"Fuck off, Merle."

Merle's eyes glinted with triumph and glee. "Sure got your dander up now, don'cha, Prissy?"

"Goddamn right, I do." Daryl went to nudge her towards the house but she shook her head at him. "No. He wanted to get a rise out of one of us and he finally has one. Only, I don't care what he says about me. Let him call me a whore or some rich society bitch. I've heard it all before and most of it from my father."

Merle couldn't resist saying, "Got a way with words, don't I?"

"Shut it, Merle."

"Or else what?" Merle lifted the full bottle of Coors held loosely between his fingertips to his lips. "You gonna spank me, girly?" A leer twisted one side of his mouth. "Hell, I don't mind a lil' recreational spankin'."

"I'm not letting you trick your brother into a fight," Priss snarled at him. "You want to get in a fight with someone? Go find one of the others to get into a fight with."

"Why you care so much about what happens between me and my brother?"

"Because it's about damn time that someone cares about him and actually sticks up for him." When their eyes met there was a clash. Like that of a tornado meeting a volcano. Merle half imagined his skin being burned by the heat of her gaze. "He'll blister my ass later for getting involved in your business again, but hell, someone needs to tell you to knock your shit off. And the way I see it?" She planted her fists on her shapely hips. "I'm just the right woman for the job."

His brother had heard enough at that point. "And you just the right woman to take her ass on inside that house," he grumbled as he took hold of her arm. "Now go on and git."

"No, I'm not going insi... hey!" She cried as Daryl hooked an arm around her waist and forcibly lifted her and set her in front of the front door. She shot him a furious look from over one shoulder. "I'm not going inside until I tell his ass about why he says and does the shit he does."

"You damn sure gonna go-"

"Hell, ain't like I know why I say or do the shit I do," Merle cut in before Daryl could finish his statement. "I'm a damn mystery even to me."

"Yeah, you might be a mystery to yourself but you're not one to me," Priss said. "I know exactly why you say and do the shit you do."

"Well, since you Miss Know-It-All," he said even as warning bells went off inside his head. "Why don't you explain it to me?"

"Why?" Priss twisted her head around Daryl's arm to fix him with eyes that Merle started to realize saw too much. "You'll just deny whatever it is I say. Tell me I don't know what I am talking about, that I'm wrong, that I'm full of shit. But we both know that I know exactly what I'm talking about. And that is why you want me to stay the hell away from your brother."

Oh, yeah, Merle knew what the hell she was talking about. All the bullshit they went through with their daddy. How the bitch even knew about that shit was beyond him. Wasn't something either he or his brother talked about with anyone. They didn't discuss that shit with each other even. One look at Prissy's face told him she was just waiting for him to challenge her about what all she knew. Well, there weren't any way in hell he was gonna open that kettle of worms. He turned away, mumbling over his shoulder, "Get the hell outta here," while reaching for another beer.

...

_Goddamn woman thought she had ole Merle by the ballsack there_ , he thought as the memory faded. _Didn't though._ His lips spread into a grin as he reached for the bottle of whiskey he pilfered from a convenience store earlier that afternoon. _Yeah, man, I sure stopped your cute lil' ass from screwin' around in that sandbox_. He stopped Priss, he realized as he studied Daryl through lowered lashes. He had not stopped his brother, though. _You gonna keep searchin' for her and them brats, ain't you, son? You ain't gonna give up until you either find 'em or find some clue about where they went._

Not that his brother would find a clue about where they went. He'd done made sure to send Prissy in the exact opposite direction of where he and his brother were heading. And considering how Daryl, who he had to admit was a better tracker than he was, hadn't been able to find hide nor hair of the bitch in the almost seven days since they left that bullshit camp outside Blue Ridge? He figured she was well and truly lost.

_Good riddance_ , he thought as he settled back against his pack and hefted the half-full bottle to his lips.

…

**Farmhouse, Georgia**

"Kai?" It was Rose's use of his Kryptonian name over her more preferred use of _meathead_ that snatched him from sleep. "Kai, are you awake?"

Christopher blinked open his gritty eyes enough to see that they were still shrouded in darkness. Still night then, he thought as he stifled a groan. He briefly considered ignoring her. Ignoring his younger sister was never an option, though. Least of all when she reached over to gently nudge his arm. "Kai?"

Something was clearly disturbing his sister. Christopher told himself that she wouldn't be so insistent about waking him if there was not something really troubling her. That, more than anything alerted him to this being more than a simple case of her having had a nightmare. He was more than a trifle curious and more than a little concerned about what the reason was. _What woke her up_? He found himself wondering. _Did she hear another horde outside_? He attuned his auditory senses to the world outside the farmhouse but heard nothing that suggested more of the undead had shown up. Realizing how the only way to find out why she was awake was to ask her, Christopher heaved a sigh and turned on his side to look at her.

"I'm awake, Rose," he muttered. "What is it? What's wrong?"

When Rose didn't immediately reply, he thought she may have fallen back asleep. Be totally like his sister to wake him up and then go to sleep herself. _If you've gone to sleep,_ he silently swore, _I will so clobber you when you wake up_ …

He heard her draw in a shuddering breath a second later, but she still didn't respond to his inquiry. Part of Christopher wondered if why his sister couldn't sleep was because she was afraid that more of those "walkers" might show up while they slept. Rose was like their mother in that she hated to admit when she was scared. And just like their mother, she would never think to just ask him if he'd mind sleeping closer to her because she was scared.

_Geez, you are becoming more and more like mom all the time_ , he huffed as he slid over beside her. He saw, as much as felt the relief that streaked through her petite frame and rolled his eyes. _So much like mom_ , he groused as he tucked his blanket over her and settled down to try again to get some sleep. However, Rose's next question pushed all thoughts of going back to sleep to the bottom of the list.

"Do you think Mr. Grimes will stay with us if he can't find his family?"

His eyebrows feathered up at those softly uttered words. Was that what was keeping her awake? Wondering if the sheriff would stay with them if he couldn't find his own family?

"I dunno," he told her honestly. "Guess it's possible he could stay with us." He canted his head to look into her face and saw she was staring up at the ceiling with that same pensive look their mom got when she was internalizing things. "Why you wanna know if I think he will stay with us?"

"I like him," Rose admitted in a small voice. "He reminds me of Uncle Dick with a bit of Uncle Tim tossed in."

"Yeah," he agreed with a sigh. "Yeah, he reminds me of them, too."

"Mom likes him." She glanced over at him. "She likes him, a lot."

He knew his mom liked Mr. Grimes. And he suspected that the sheriff liked her, too. There was just one small problem standing in the way of them _really_ liking each other.

"He's gotta wife and son of his own, Rosie."

Rose turned on her side. "Maybe," she allowed. "But we don't know if they are alive. Not for sure, at least."

_Zing, point to Rose_ , he thought with the ghost of a smile.

"No, we don't-"

"There are so many people who have died 'cause of this virus," she continued as if she hadn't even heard him. "We don't know who all got infected from who didn't. Same as we don't know who mighta made it from who didn't. All we can do is hope they did."

Sometimes, just sometimes, he forgot that he was dealing with his mom in ten-year-old form. _Now I know how Uncle Dick and Grandpa Bruce musta felt when mom was Rose's age_ … Rose's point, though, about not knowing who had gotten infected, who had turned, and who hadn't made it carried more than a bit of weight, though. Even he couldn't deny that she wasn't making some serious points with what she had to say. They didn't rightly know about who was alive, dead or undead. Still, they couldn't just take for granted that Mr. Grimes's wife and son were among those who had not made it.

"You know I'm right," Rose said when he remained silent. "You know that we don't know about any of those things."

"No, we don't know any of those things," he finally admitted. "But we can't just assume his wife and son didn't make it. We have to believe Mrs. Grimes and their son managed to make it and are waiting for Mr. Grimes to find them."

"I know," Rose said with a heavy sigh. "I know we gotta believe that they are okay and that they are somewhere waiting for Mr. Grimes to find 'em. It's just…" she lowered her lashes. "It's just I _wish_ he could stay with us, yanno?"

"I know you do, Rose." There was both sympathy and patience in Christopher's voice. "I wis-"

"Do you remember when we used to go over to play with Jenny and her brother Joe?"

"Yeah…" He said slowly as a frown puckered his brow. "What about it?"

"I used to love going over there, watching them with their mom and dad. Sometimes?" She flicked her eyes to him but quickly averted them. "Sometimes I'd pretend they were our family."

He stroked her hair. "Mom did her best, Rose."

"Oh, I know she did her best, Kai. I know she loves us and all. I just always wondered what it'd be like to have a _dad_. To have his focus and attention and interest and involvement in our lives. All those things that Jenny and Joe had that made them a family. What Mom has with grandpa's Bruce and Jim."

"I guess so."

"Oh, Kai, don't tell me that it hasn't been nice having Mr. Grimes around to ask _guy_ questions of."

"Well, yeah, it has been nice." _And it was nice_ , he couldn't deny it. It was more than nice, actually. There were certain things that Mr. Grimes knew about that his uncles and grandfathers didn't. _Like how to set a snare trap and how to shave without a mirror and all_. It was stuff he had learned from Mr. Dixon before they had gotten separated from him. "But I can ask all those things of Uncles Dick, Jason and Tim. Or of Alfred. Or Mr. Dixon when we find him."

"I know you can ask them all those things," she said. "But they don't have that dad vibe that Mr. Grimes has."

"We're lucky to have the mom we do," Christopher told her a bit more harshly than he intended. He softened his tone before adding, "Mom has given us everything she can, Rose. She has always made sure that we never wanted or needed for anything."

"I know that, Kai. I know Mom has given us everything we want and need. So do uncles Dick, Tim, and Jason. And we have the best grandfathers in the world. But these last few days with Mr. Grimes? They've been awesome. For once it feels like we're a family... a _real_ family," she stressed. "It's just been kinda nice having a dad."

"Rose." Because he thought she needed it, he pressed a kiss to her hair. "He's not your dad."

"I know he's not my dad." He could taste the sting of bitterness that tripped off her tongue same as she did. "He's better than my father. Mr. Grimes actually cares about us and takes cares of us. Like Mr. Dixon did until we got separated from him."

Christopher told himself he could understand where she was coming from. Helk, he could empathize with her for how she felt. Unlike his father, who had died before he was born, Slade Wilson was very much alive and could have been part of her life. The few times when he had come around and tried to be a dad had always ended up causing Rose more harm than good. _Mom finally moved us somewhere he wouldn't think to look because she wanted better for us_.

He was about to tell her that when a sound, not even high enough to be classified as a whisper, reached his ears. Since his hearing was incredibly acute, grandpa Clark had taught him how to tune out other auditory distractions and focus only on those sounds he felt were most important. He felt his blood run cold when he heard the sound of something rustling.

"What is it?" Rose lifted wide, fearful eyes to his. "What do you hear?"

"I am not sure," he told her in a voice that was hard as tempered steel. "But there is something outside."

"Walkers?" He saw her face pale. "Do you think that it could be more walkers?"

"Could be." He kicked the blankets off and rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. "I'm gonna go wake Mr. Grimes. Stay here."

"'Kay," was her faint reply.


	28. Chapter 28

**Farmhouse, Georgia**

_Day 68 (Middle of the night)_

Outside, a handful of men, all dressed in matching black suits and ties, were carefully making their way towards the front of the dark house. They crept along, keeping their steps light to not alert the occupants - specifically the boy and white dog with the amplified auditory senses - who they knew were asleep inside. Each man carried a standard issue tranquilizer gun in their hands. Only the leader of the group, a man known simply as Agent 12 was carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

"Boss wants the Kent kid brought directly to him," 12 said, racking a shell into the gun's firing chamber. "Preferably, without a scratch on him."

"What about the Kean woman?" one of the men asked. "What's the boss want us to do with her and her other brat?"

12 knew what he'd do with them if the choice was left up to him. However…

"Boss has made it clear that Dr. Kean and her daughter are to be given every option to come along quietly."

"And if they refuse to come quietly? If they put up a fight or resist in any way?" A swarthy-skinned man asked in a low, dark rasp. "What's boss say to do with them then?"

12 glanced over at the man. "Then we are to treat them as hostile and take them by force."

The man nodded, satisfied with the answer.

"What about the man the bitch is traveling with? The pig?" A newbie by the name of Hunt spoke up from the back of the group. "What's the boss wants us to do with him should he decide he wants to try to…" he paused, smirked. "Play the hero?"

"If Smokey Bear gets in our way," 12 replied coolly, "we waste his ass."

"I say we waste his ass anyway." Hunt's lips twisted into a smile colder than the glaciers in the Arctic. "Ain't like the boss told us to be nice to local law enforcement or anything."

There were small murmurs of agreement among the rest of the men. 12 chuckled as he turned to stare at the canary yellow house with its titty pink shutters, a front door that was an odd shade of lavender, porch eaves and railings stained toxic green, and a strip of porch the same shade of orange as the cones road crews used to block off huge, ceramic frogs with their cheerfully playful faces and big, smart ass grins caused him to shudder with a mixture of unease and disgust. Sitting at the edge of a tiny grove of trees and wildly growing rose bushes, the house drew people towards it with its deceptively eclectic charm and the promise of warmth and security.

12 told himself he could see how such a place would appeal to a man and woman on the run. Recessed back from the road and situated between the trees as it was, the house provided a measure of defense and protection to their small clan. Windows on all sides allowed for an unobstructed view of the grounds. And there were plenty of areas where an expertly trained crime-fighter could set out traps intended to keep out any and all intruders. A smirk scrunched up one corner of his mouth. Yes, he could see the areas where the woman laid out some of the finer gadgets in her arsenal. The woman had been trained by the Bat but he had been trained by Deathstroke. And there was nobody who knew her better than Slade Wilson.

"Let's go," he commanded in a tone like ice. "And be vigilant. The bitch is one of Batman's birds. She's going to have any number of tricks up her skirt."

"Yes, sir," the men replied as they followed him to the front of the house.

…

Christopher edged slowly along the wall of the hall, staying low and avoiding the speckles of moonlight peeking through the knots and holes in the boards he and Mr. Grimes placed over the front windows. He kept his eyes and ears open for any sight or sound that would confirm or deny that whomever, or _whatever_ , he silently corrected, that was outside the house was of either the human or inhuman kind. He detected movement and froze. Anticipation churned in his belly and burned in his veins.

Any second he expected to hear that familiar shuffling of the undead, hear their spine-tingling discordant groaning, hear their nerveless fingers clawing at the door and windows. He wished, desperately so, that he would hear the light tread of Mr. Dixon as he moved with that catlike grace up the front walk. He wouldn't even mind hearing the loud, boisterous voice of his older brother at that point.

Two large shadows passed by the front window. Christopher felt a spark of hope blossom within his chest as he imagined one of the figures carrying a crossbow slung over his shoulder. _He found us_ , he thought as he heard voices whispering and the handle of the front door being jiggled. _Just like I knew he would_. However, the electric currents dancing in his veins and pooling in his belly quickly died as he realized that the men out on the porch were not Daryl or Merle Dixon. For one thing, Merle wouldn't approach so silently. _And Daryl wouldn't ever hear of wasting Mr. Grimes just 'cause he is a member of law enforcement._

A frown darkened Christopher's brow as he contemplated who these nocturnal intruders were. Whoever these men were, they were definitely not there because they were looking for shelter. There was nothing friendly about either their tone or their intentions. Part of him, the one his best bud - and semi-sorta uncle and younger brother - Damian would say was his more logical one assumed the men were some of those in the employ of either Mr. Luthor or Rose's father, Slade. Neither was good news, but of the two, Christopher hoped they were those employed by Luthor.

Stupid was something they could easily handle. Stupid and well-trained? A bit more difficult. The one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that they wouldn't be getting in through the back door. Not with part of the roof blocking their way. That left only the front door. And they wouldn't be getting in that way, either. _At least_ , he mentally corrected as he crept further down the hall, _they will not get in without Mom and Mr. Grimes and Krypto having ample chance to take them out, first_.

Christopher heard the light tread of steps in the kitchen and realized someone was already inside the house and making his or her or _its_ way in his direction. _And in the direction of Mom and Mr. Grimes_. A cool calm settled over Christopher as he prioritized what threat he needed to handle first. It wasn't like he had to overly think of what he was going to do. Mr. Dixon had entrusted him with the care of his mother and sister right before he left to handle the walkers who'd gotten into the camp. That made them _his_ responsibility. _His_ to protect. _His_ to keep safe.

_I won't fail_ , he promised the absent man. _I will do whatever I have to._

He felt a shift deep within himself, recognized it as the other side of himself, the one who taught tactical skill, combat maneuvers and six different forms of martial arts since he could walk, all receding into the darkness so the hero he was destined to eventually become could rise. He crept over to the entrance into the kitchen, paused just outside the opening, his arms held loosely at his sides, his body primed and readied for whatever could come at him. He felt more than heard the person on the other side as they reached the open archway and without pausing to consider the danger or possible ramifications of his actions, swung around the wall to meet whoever was waiting on the other side...

…

Rick had only just drifted back into a light doze when he heard the soft tread of feet. _Well, I should have known they would not stay back there for the entire night_ , he mused as the ghost of a smile trembled upon his lips. Why he even suggested that the two youngsters sleep in the back bedroom was beyond him. He had known even when he indicated for them to make themselves comfortable on the folding camping bed they had found stored underneath a pile of other camping supplies in a small shed out back that one, or the both of them, would join him and Raya at some point during the night.

It had been the way of things since he started traveling with them. The kids would be made comfortable, he and Raya would take up their guard positions, and one or the both of them would come crawling in beside their mother at some point. Rick had assumed, at first, that the kids had either been awoken by some noise they heard, the overwhelming silence itself or from any one of the dozens of nightmares this world had given them and sought out their mother for comfort and support. As he had gotten to know the two, he had come to find out that it was about much more than the pre-teens merely wanting to be close to their mother. _No_ , he thought as he opened his eyes. _No, they are also checking in on her, making sure that she is doing okay and offering what comfort and support they can to her in return_.

In the short time he had been with them, he learned they were a very close-knit family, strengthened by the bond they shared and insulated against much of the ugliness that had befallen the world because of it. It did not surprise him that Rose and Christopher were as protective of their mother as she was of them. He knew many single-parent families who had been as close as this family was.

It was how the family operated, each member filling in for the missing parental unit to stabilize the system and provide the family with what it needed. They worked together, fought together, and struggled over whatever hurdles life tossed in front of them, together. If one of the members was not at their best emotionally, if they were physically injured or ill, or if they were not, for whatever reason, able to give the family whatever it needed, the other members of the family stepped up to shoulder the burden of responsibility for them.

_And the one who tends to step up and shoulder a great many of those responsibilities_ , he thought now with a slight pang, _is Christopher_.

That, though, was because Christopher Kent saw himself as the man of the Kean-Kent household. It was a role that he had undertaken a long, long time ago. As the only male member of his family, and the elder sibling at that, it had fallen to him to do a great many of the duties that would have been up to his father - were he alive - to handle.

There was little doubt in Rick's mind that Christopher did those things not because he felt it was his duty and obligation to do them, but because he wanted to do them _._ The boy did his best to take care of his mother and younger sister, taking on many of the more grueling physical tasks, ensuring they ate and slept, and protecting them when a threat arose. However, for all that Christopher was the man of the house, he was still all of twelve. He was nowhere near ready emotionally for all the responsibilities being thrust upon his rounded shoulders.

_Boy needs a_... He stopped _that_ thought before it could skip its way over into territory he had found himself visiting far too often of late. He had a son. One who was out there and needed him. It was up to him to teach and prepare Carl for whatever was ahead. Rick couldn't deny, however, the pleasure he got from being with Raya and her kids. He enjoyed watching the siblings as they interacted with each other, their playful banter coaxing a smile when he didn't feel like smiling and the quiet affection they tended to display chasing away his despondency and growing concerns about finding Lori and Carl alive.

He had often regretted that he and Lori had not had more children. _We discussed having another child a few years ago but then never did_ , he thought as he slowly sat up. Not that having more children would have made any difference in the larger scheme of things. Another child would not have prevented the eventual breakdown of their relationship. They would have just been one more person who would have been hurt by what was going on between him and Lori. _We did enough damage as it was to Carl_.

Hushed voices had his lips twitching. Sometimes, when she didn't think he was looking, Rick would see Raya staring at her mischievous brood with a big grin on her face. He swore he could hear her thinking, _just look at those two. Ain't they great? And they're both mine_. Raya didn't just love her children, or tend to them because she felt it was her responsibility to do so. She enjoyed them. _And they enjoy her right back_ , he thought as he heard one, it sounded like Rose, hiss out, "shh!" when Krypto let out a soft, almost questioning sounding yip.

He heard growling a split second before something, he assumed one of those massive paws, smacked the floor with enough force to rattle the one picture still hanging on the wall by the front door.

"Stop it!" he heard Christopher order the big dog. "You're gonna wake Mr. Grimes and Mom!"

An answering bark came from Krypto and effectively told Rick that waking him or their mother was exactly what the dog was about. There was a sigh and he swore that he heard Christopher call the dog a "colossal pain in the ass," beneath his breath.

_Well, I guess both of your brood is coming to check and make sure you are actually sleeping tonight_ , he told the woman asleep beside him. He had bet on it being Christopher. _Rose was the one to check on her last night_. Rick knew the pre-teens were as worried about their mother and her well-being as she was about theirs. It bothered them, much more than either one was willing to admit or say aloud, about how their mother was barely sleeping and eating. He couldn't ease their fears, though. All he could do was what he had done: make sure they and their mom were taken care of to the best of his ability.

_What will happen if I am not there_? He found himself asking himself for what felt like the thousandth time. _Who will take care of them then_? He glanced down at the woman who had started to occupy his thoughts far too often. She looked like an angel, curled on her side and with her head propped up on her arm. He studied her sleeping form, knowing it was a ruse, but not knowing what he could do about it. Part of him — a part talking way too much lately — wanted to curl around her and shelter her from whatever had her body coiled, ready for action.

_What will happen when I'm not here to remind you to eat? Or to badger you into getting some sleep? Or stop you from wading into a walker-infested building as if you don't have a damned care in the world? Or_... He heaved a heavy sigh as those questions brought up a plethora of others that came with a litany of answers that left him shaken and confused.

What was going to happen to Raya and her kids if she couldn't get them home to Gotham? Or if they returned to the northeastern city only to discover their entire family had succumbed to this virus? Would she remain in Gotham and find a way to survive, or would she move her family somewhere else? Where would she take them if she had no other choice but to leave her home city?

_Would she stay_...

He didn't allow himself to complete that particular thought. Yet again he reminded himself about how he had no right to think about any of those things he had been for the last few days. _They're not mine to worry about_. Even as he thought it, he knew it to be a lie. He was worried about them. He had been ever since he met them on that dark, deserted highway. What would happen to Raya and her kids after he found Lori and Carl had grown into a malignant tumor that was slowly eating away at his brain. It worried him about how they would be out there on their own. They could find themselves caught in any number of situations and traps and have nobody to help bail them out.

Even with all the skills that Raya possessed, and they were considerable, he had to admit that, they might not be enough to make sure that they would make it home to Gotham. It troubled him that something could happen that would leave her children without her there to watch out and care for them. _Or worse_ , he thought as she breathed out something he couldn't make out. She could lose either one or the both of them. Losing a child was something that would devastate any parent. That a parent had to even consider losing a child to a disease like this was unthinkable. That any parent could be forced to watch as their child became one of the infected was unimaginable.

It bothered him that if he wasn't there to stop that, to prevent it from happening, that Raya would crack and be unable to shore up the cracks and go on living. She needed... _No_! he scolded. _You gotta stop thinking about that! About what will happen to them once you are gone_! There was no tomorrow, no starting over, no _them_. He had a wife, he had a son, he needed to find them, he needed to get them somewhere safe, and he needed to make things work for the benefit of the child he and Lori had brought into the world.

_Period_.

Ah, but Rick found it wasn't so easy to close off the dread doing backflips in his gut. Nor was it so easy to ignore the dark, devious voice whispering in the back of his head, asking him about what if he never found his wife and son, or if he found them, but they were walkers? He pushed that thought aside. He would find Lori and Carl, alive and well, and that was all there was to it. He heard a soft curse as a toe met with a hard surface and hid a smile. It wasn't like the boy to be clumsy so Rick assumed his stumbling around in the dark had been for his benefit.

"She's resting," he said quietly as Christopher approached. "But that is all she's..." he trailed off when he spied Christopher's agitated state. His body instantly tightened, his instincts as a cop and a father kicking into high gear when he saw the worry darkening the boy's eyes. "What is it, Christopher?"

"There are some people outside."

"Some people?" Rick felt his blood run cold as a plethora of possibilities, all bad, flashed through his mind. "Are they the owners of the farm? Other survivors? Walkers?"

"No." Christopher shook his head. "No, they are most definitely not the undead."

"Owners of the farm? Other survivors?"

"They are definitely not the owners."

One brow quirked. "How do you know they aren't the owners?"

"Well, I could, uh, hear them talking."

Rick didn't bother to ask about how Christopher had managed to hear the men talking. He had learned it was better _not_ to question some things.

"Well..." he said slowly, thoughtfully. "They might just be looking for shelter."

"I don't think they are looking for a safe place to spend the night, Mr. Grimes."

Krypto let out a low, menacing growl that shivered along Rick's already taut nerves.

"What the fu...?" He stopped himself from finishing that sentence. "Who the hell are they?"

_And what did they want_? He silently wondered. He was about to ask just that, but Christopher's next words slammed into Rick with more force than the bullet that had torn through his flesh.

"They're hired goons."

Rick's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.

"Hired _goons_?" He frowned, straining to see the boy more clearly in the darkness. "What do you mean they are hired goons?"

_And how the hell do you even know about things like hired goons_? He found himself silently asking the boy. Not for the first time, and Rick had long started to suspect that it wouldn't be the last, he found himself wondering about just _who_ Raya Kean was. He decided that soon as there was a chance that he was going to demand some answers from the dark-haired woman. For now, he focused on the problem standing outside their door.

"They're bad men," was all Christopher said. "Very bad men."

"How do you know that the men outside are bad men? What did they say that made you think they mean any harm?"

"Trust me," Christopher grated out in a harsh whisper. "They're bad men. And here for a specific reason."

The bitter anger in the boy's tone, upon his face had Rick's body tensing.

"Who are these men?" Carl would have recognized his tone and instantly spilled whatever secrets he was keeping. "And why are they here? What is it that you think they want?"

"Not think," Christopher corrected. " _Know_. I _know_ what they want."

"What?"

"Me."

Of anything that the boy could have said, that he could have told him was his reason for why these intruders were there, that they were there for him was the last thing Rick had anticipated him saying.

"You?" He cocked his head to the side. "Why are they after you?"

"They are the hired thugs of a man named Lex Luthor," Christopher spit the name out as if it was poison. "He wants me brought to him."

"Lex Luthor?" The name had bells going off inside his head. "Isn't he the main villain in all the Superman movies?"

"Yuh." Christopher nodded. "He is the main villain in all the Superman movies. He's also a flesh and blood man. One who wants to use me to create an army of super-soldiers."

Rick filed that information away as he sat up. There would be time later to interrogate Raya and get some of the answers that he thought he more than deserved. His movements jostled the woman who had curled closer to him at some point. Raya issued a sleepy protest but did not awaken. _Thankfully_ , he added silently as he pulled on his shirt.

"Are you sur-"

"I'm positive, Mr. Grimes." Christopher's face could have been carved from stone. "They're here for me and will think nothing of killing you, Rose or Mom to get their hands on me."

Rick was already reaching for his belt. "They'll have to go through me, first."


	29. Chapter 29

**Farmhouse, Georgia**

_Day 68 (Still)_

All right, boys," 12 said as he stepped up to the oddly colored door. "Be vigilant, be smart, and be wary. We have no clue what safety measures or precautions Kean or her country pokey will have used to protect the house from any _unwanted_ visitors."

He listened for sounds of life coming from within the house and from any of the murky places where some of those infected shits could be hiding. There was nothing beyond the slight twinkling of a set of wind chimes swinging lazily from the porch eaves. His lips kicked up into a smirk as he studied the ten copper-colored tubes held by some sorta bluefin fish with a big, smart-ass grin on its face. It was just the sort of item he expected a woman trained by Batman to use to hide a small security alarm.

"Do you want me to set a charge?" Hunt asked as he stepped up beside him on the porch. "Take them by surprise?"

12 cast a look around the dark and deserted farm, a disdainful smirk twisting one corner of his fleshy lips. They would have managed to make the grab back at the first camp Kean had holed her little group up in but a bunch of them walking dead fucks had surprised them and necessitated the need to abandon their original plan. _It shouldn't be this difficult to snatch one snot-nosed twerp from his mother_ , he mused as he calculated how much of a charge they'd need to use to stun the occupants of the house without causing any harm to the boy.

It should have been easy enough for a group of trained men like themselves to outsmart some backward hick with a crossbow, a bumbling country sheriff, a female with skills fade, her two rug-rats, and one massively obnoxious white dog. However, it had proven more of a challenge than either he or the man who had sent them to retrieve the boy, had expected. He glanced at the men flanking him. All of them stared at him with hot, hungry eyes. They would roll through that door like a tsunami, sweeping up the Kean woman and her children before they knew what hit them.

"Set the charge to the left of the door," he instructed Hunt. "The glass fragments will get blown towards the middle of the entrance hall and won't cause the Kent brat any harm."

"You think we should split up?" Hunt queried as he pulled a charge from the bag strapped to his back. "Have men breach from the back as well as the front?"

"Could catch them in a crossfire and make sure the bitch can't get away," another of the men piped up. "Not like she did the last time."

 _It was a good suggestion_ , 12 realized. A very good suggestion now that he took the time to think about it. Splitting up would give them a small, but crucial advantage. It would maximize their moves and limit the number of Kean's. However, a quick inspection revealed debris and part of the roof itself blocked the way. The only way in from the back was through one of the boarded-up bedroom windows.

They couldn't control the situation or make sure that Kean or the sheriff wouldn't have rigged up something to slow down their progression. Going in through the roof was another possibility. A quick glance up revealed how that way would cost them their surprise advantage. The wind devices and other tin gadgets whoever had owned this house had installed would make just enough noise to give away their presence.

"No," he finally said. "We go in from the front."

"You think they're all huddled together in the living room then?"

"I think if the Kean woman is half as smart as the boss claims she is, she will have the kids sleeping in one of the bedrooms while she and that backwoods sheriff's deputy she's shacked up with take up guard positions in the front of the house."

Soft murmurs of agreement went up at that. Hunt attached the device to the door and pressed a button.

"Charge is set for ten minutes."

"Get ready," 12 told the others. "And have smoke grenades and flash bangs at the ready," he added as an afterthought. "We ain't taking no chances on Kean managing to make a getaway this time."

"Yes, sir," the men said.

…

"I really don't wanna do it," there was absolute regret in Christopher's voice, upon his face, "but we're gonna have to wake Mom. She really needs to know about the men outsi-"

"I'm already awake, Kai," his mother announced as she slowly sat up, stretching sleep stiff muscles while combing out the snarls and tangles in her dark hair. "What's going on?"

"Mom!" Christopher gulped. "You're awake!"

 _And likely been awake the entire time_ , Rick mused as he reached out to untangle one springy coil from where it had wrapped itself around one of the aquamarine stones hanging from one earlobe. He hid a smile as he turned to grab his shirt and shoes from where he'd tossed them before bedding down for the night.

"Yes, I'm awake," she drawled as she sent an easy smile over her shoulder at Rick. "People don't commonly talk while sleeping, after all. Not," she added as Christopher groaned, "coherently, at least."

Christopher rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Yanno what I meant."

"Hey, you are the one who stated the obvious, kiddo," she joked. "Not me."

"Whatever."

 _She doesn't look so guarded_ , Rick thought as he listened to them trade quips back and forth. He liked her best at these times. Her face and voice were soft from sleep and her eyes didn't have that wary, haunted look to them. She was more approachable during these moments, more prone to engaging in teasing banter, and to displaying more of her warmth and affection. She was also a lot less likely to either brood about things she had no control over, or worry herself sick over whatever; whoever it was she decided to fuss over. _Like me_. His lips kicked upwards at the corners as he shrugged into his shirt and buttoned it.

"Don't you _whatever_ me."

"Or you'll, what?" The boy flashed a lopsided grin. "Exactly."

Rick choked on a laugh. _The kid had his mother's smart mouth and attitude_. He thought it a fitting bit of retribution. Rayaheard his amusement and flicked a look at him from over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched and a smirk twisting one corner of her mouth.

"Something amusing you there, Sheriff?"

"Just enjoying seeing you get a taste of your own medicine is all, ma'am."

She snorted a laugh. "Just you wait." A playful grin tugged at her lips and took the sting out of her warning tone. "You'll be getting the same treatment from your son just as soon as you find him."

Her reminder soured Rick's good mood.

" _If_ I find him," he told her in a dark, moody tone. "That's the thing. I have to find him before he can give me as much grief as Chris does you."

"You will." She half-turned to lay a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder. "You will find Carl," she assured him in a voice that brimmed with a confidence he did not feel. "And once you do, he will sass you as much as my bratty son does me."

"I have to prepare myself for the truth, Raya."

Her head cocked to one side. "And what truth is it that you are preparing yourself for, Rick?"

"I have to prepare myself that I might not find Lori." He looked back at her with eyes that felt suspiciously wet. "Or Carl."

"It's good you are preparing yourself for that possibility," she admitted gently. "But I think it is a bit premature to be going down that road."

"Is it?" Emotion swirled now into his voice, his face. "Is it premature?"

"You have only just started your search." She slid her fingers down his arm, taking his and lightly squeezing. "Give it and yourself some time before you start thinking about those sorts of possibilities."

Rick looked down at the hand covering his own. Faith, compassion, and friendship trembled in the fingers laying quietly in his. "I'm not much of a believer," he told her. "I always put my faith in other things. Family mostly." He ran a thumb across the back of her hand, feeling the smoothness of her skin and taking comfort in it; in the realness, it offered. "Friends. My job." He sighed once, deeply. "I dunno if what I am doing is the right thing. You don't know how hard that is to know." He lifted his eyes to hers and saw sympathy and understanding swirling in those green depths. "Well, maybe, you do."

"I do know how hard it is." She gave a slight nod of her head. "I struggle with the same questions every day." Her sigh was as heavy as his own had been. "I believe that you will find Lori and Carl." Her lips curved. "And we will do our best to help you find them."

He swallowed back his guilt and agitation. "We've been over that."

"And it's still not up for debate."

His lips twitched. "You're a hard-headed woman, Dr. Kean."

"Yes, I am." She sobered. "Just don't give up on finding them, okay?"

"I won't," he promised with more confidence than he felt. "I won't stop until I either manage to find them or exhaust every option."

That seemed to satisfy her because she turned back to Christopher, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, and asked, "You said something about men outside?" At his nod, she made a face. "How many? Do you know?"

"I dunno how many there are," the teen admitted with a small grimace. "But it sounds like there's quite a few."

Raya made a low, speculative sounding "Mm," as she pulled on her boots.

"Mm?" Rick waited until she looked at him before adding, "Mm, what?"

"Mm, as in _let's-get-our-shit-and-get-the-hell-outta-here_ ," she replied as she reached for her bow and quiver of arrows. "And go before they try to take us by surprise with either a flashbang, smoke bomb or some other type of explosive device."

Rick's eyebrows shot up. "You think they will try some sorta breach?"

"I think they are desperate men pushed into doing whatever is necessary at this point to carry out what they are here to do." She slanted a look at him. Her eyes seemed ageless all of a sudden, filled with the torment of decades. "And I do mean that they will be willing to do whatever is necessary at this point to do what they have been sent here to do."

"Could these be friends of the men we dealt with earlier?" He questioned as he reached for his watch. "The ones in town?"

"Very well could be, yes," she admitted with a small, tight smile. "Men like that don't tend to take having their asses handed to them by a woman, a country sheriff, and two kids all that well. Tends to make 'em a wee bit pissed off."

Rick felt a chill creep down his spine at those calmly spoken words. He didn't have to think hard about what those sorts of men would do to get even. Clearly, though, Raya, as well as Christopher, had a working knowledge about these men and what they were capable of. He decided it was beyond time that they shared what they knew with him.

"Who are these men?" He kept his tone light, but firm. "And what do they want with Christopher?"

Raya shifted from side to side, and a strange look came over her face.

"They are," she finally said in a somber tone, "the hired men of a man who does not know how to take no for an answer."

"Lex Luthor, you mean."

Raya's face betrayed nothing. However, Rick saw her eyes flicker with something. _Fear_? He wondered. _Fear about what_? It was gone less than a second later. For a moment, Rick wondered if he had seen anything at all on that pale face. _I know I saw it_ , he thought, his brow puckering. _I know she's afraid. She has been even more on edge ever since that first group of men showed up to attack us_. Getting her to admit it, though, would be harder than pulling the teeth out of the mouth of a crocodile.

"Well, I can see that somebody..." Raya cut a look over at Christopher that had the boy squirming. "Has been explaining a few things to you when you were alone."

"Yuh, uh," he stammered. "'Bout that." He looked down at his feet. "See, ah, I-"

"Don't go and blame him," Rick cut in. "I made him tell me the truth. Something _you_ ," he chastised gently, "should have told me after those men tried to get the drop on us."

"Maybe," she allowed. "But-"

"How can I help protect you if I don't know what it is you need protecting from?"

"You shouldn't even be involved in this…" she started to say but he cut off whatever line of pretty bullshit she was about to feed him with a simple question.

"What's going on?"

"Rick—"

"Raya, what is going on?"

"I don't want you involved in this any more than you already are."

"Tough," he told her curtly. "I am involved. I have been since the night you and your family found me out on that old highway and offered me help."

"You have your own family-"

"I am still a police officer." He stood and tucked his shirt into his pants. "It's my job to protect you."

"Rick, I am quite capable of handling these bastards on my own."

He sent her an amused look. "What you are used to being is in charge."

"I am-"

"…not willing to delegate responsibilities or accept help." He nodded as he offered her hand. "Yeah, I can see that."

She made a low sound, almost a growl, deep in her throat. "Look, god-"

"I am not one of your children or your brothers."

She set one hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet before saying, "I know you are not one of my brothers. Or my children." Her fingers trembled in his. "That doesn't mean-"

"That you can snap your fingers and expect that I will sit at your side and wait for your command. I'm not a dog and I won't be treated like one."

He saw a tidal wave of emotion swirl across her face.

"You-" she held up a hand, more to stop herself than to keep him silent. It was more proof of how different she was from Lori. Rather than say something that she could end up regretting later, she chose to step back and let her anger cool before speaking. "You do not need to get involved in my problems. You don't need to risk your life. Not when you have a family of your own that is out there and needs you."

"I am not abandoning you when you have bad people trying to hurt you," he told her firmly. "Just ain't gonna happen, Raya."

"You can't stand between me and them."

"Yes." He nodded. "I can. And," he added before she could reply, "I will."

Raya muttered a few unsavory things beneath her breath that had Rick choking on a laugh. _I wonder where she learned that language_? He wondered as she heaved a disgusted sigh.

"And what exactly do you expect me to do?" She demanded. "Hide behind you and wring my hands? Act like some damned damsel in distress?"

"Raya." His lips twitched. "You don't have a clue about how to be the damsel in distress."

The look she gave him would have fried an egg.

"You are not my shield or my protector, Rick. I don't need a hero to ride in on his white steed and rescue me from the big bad guy."

"That's not what Mr. Grimes is saying, Mom."

Even as Christopher spoke, the keen edge of her gaze cut to him, raked over his face. Recognizing how his mother was ready to bite off anyone's head at that moment, Christopher wisely held up both hands and took a seat on one of the chairs. Rick was officially on his own. _Just stay out of it_ , he silently told the teen. _Let me deal with Miss Cantankerous_.

"I just want to help," he said to her. "What's so wrong about that?"

There was a suspicious sheen to her eyes that told Rick that her reticence was about something more than her giving up control or having to concede that she needed help. A ripple of a long-buried pain rippled in her voice.

"It could get you killed."

 _So, that's the burr in her saddle,_ he thought with a pang _. She's afraid that I could end up getting killed same as Chris's father did._ It was a subtle reminder that with this woman came a lot of baggage. A lot of which he had long come to suspect that tended to manifest itself inside a deep well of self-doubts and an endless amount of guilt and self-blame.

"I almost got killed answering a routine request for backup."

"And that's why you shouldn't be getting involved in this mess," she replied in a flat tone. "This isn't a routine backup call. These men will think nothing of killing you. And," her voice caught on a shaky breath that hurt him to hear. "I couldn't bear that. I couldn't bear if I got you killed, too."

"I'm not going to get killed."

"Yeah?" He heard the bitterness same as she did. He tried to get her to look at him but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. "Conner didn't think he was going to get killed, either. Guess what? He did."

"Hey." He kept his tone gentle. "Look at me." He waited until she did before saying, "I'm not him."

"I kn—"

"And you are the one who could just as easily be killed here."

"But it wouldn't be _you_."

 _Yes, this is a good woman_ , he realized as he stared down into her eyes. One who treated loyalty like a religion and who put everyone else, and their needs, above hers. _Well_ , he thought as he released a shuddering breath. _Someone needs to remind her that her life matters, too_.

"What about your life?"

A puzzled expression flitted over her face. "What about it?"

"Why is your life worth less than mine?" He paused. "Why is it less important?"

"It's not," she scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous."

"Then why ask if your life is worth more than mine?"

"Because I am trying to get you to see reason."

"I can see just fine," she informed him pertly. "And my answer stands. I don't want you risking your life."

"Why is it okay for you to risk your life, but not okay for me to risk mine?"

"Because," she said with a sigh. "I chose this life. I chose the repercussions. You just got drug into it by a series of unfortunate circumstances."

Krypto let out a soft _whuff_ then that drew their attention. They heard something messing with the door and waited for whatever was going to happen next. Rick didn't breathe again until silence again fell. However, he knew the reprieve wasn't going to last long. Least of all when Christopher spoke up.

"The men are right outside the door."

"Speaking of these men…" He bent a look upon her that would have had Carl spilling secrets. This woman? She didn't even flinch. "Why don't you explain to me about why this Luthor fella wants Christopher?"

Raya released a shaky breath. "Rick, we don't really have tim-"

"Make time, Raya." He softened his brusque tone. "I deserve some answers at this point. Don't you agree?"

The look that Raya gave him could have melted stone. Rick suspected she was quite accustomed to people backing down beneath the weight of that glare. Not him. He met it without flinching and with the same amount of heat. She harrumphed and looked away.

"Look, I really don't have the time to explain everything that you'd need to be told to understand what is going on here. So, can we just drop it? Please?"

The woman had quite a knack for coaching commands as subtle requests. Every inch of her tone sang with compulsion and echoed with authority. Rick was sure that there were many people, the boy lurking by the entrance to the kitchen among them, who had cringed when they heard that tone. Not him. He was from much stronger stock.

"Make time," he repeated, more firmly this time. "What does he want with Chris?"

"Suffice it to say that the man who wants my son, only wants him because he's tied to him, very loosely, by blood and believes that he has a right, as well as a say in how my son not only is raised but kept safe."

"Chris says it is because the man wants to use him to create some sort of super soldier type of army."

"Yes." She nodded. "He wants to do that, too."

"Why?"

She pushed to her feet before answering. "Why else would a man with the name of Lex Luthor want to create an army of super-soldiers, Rick?" Raya didn't growl it. No, she just sounded… _resigned_. "Because it would make him the most powerful man in the world."

"Yeah?" He said as he rolled to his feet. "Well, guess what? It'll happen over my dead body."

She sent a long look at him from over her shoulder. "That's what I'm afraid of."

He knew it was what she feared. There was nothing he could do about it, but exactly what he was planning to do. He cupped her elbow. "C'mon, let's get the hell outta here before they manage to break in."

She nodded and followed without another word of protest.


	30. Chapter 30

Less than five minutes later, Rick found himself edging along the back wall of the farmhouse, staying low and moving slowly to avoid detection by whoever it was that was trying to get the drop on him. He kept his eyes and ears open for any sight, or sound that would alert him to where whoever these men that had come to grab Christopher, were lurking. He heard quiet voices conversing from around the right side of the building. He paused, listening, his hand stretching towards the revolver strapped to his hip. The gun slid free without making even a whisper of sound. Rick peeked around the side of the building and saw a faint red glow as a cigarette got tossed to the ground and stomped out.

"I say we ignore the boss and teach the Kean woman about her proper place in the scheme of things. Coupla smacks to the back of her head oughta make her know when it's time to obey."

Rick felt his blood boil at those words. A part of him, a dark part he worked hard to keep buried, wanted to spin around the side of the building and empty his gun in them for even daring to consider putting their hands on a woman, much less one he had grown to care for as a friend and ally. However, the moralistic man he was, the one who strongly held to things like law and justice, banked that urge. He would not kill the living. Not in cold blood. It was a road he refused to even consider taking. If one of the men tried to hurt Raya or her children was one thing. He was a cop and his sworn duty was to serve and protect the protect from those intending to do them harm. Not before then, though. _I will not become like those I swore to bring to justice_.

That he was, essentially, obeying the same strict set of tenements Raya followed was not lost upon him. Her unwavering dedication to finding another way to bring criminals to justice was just one of the things he had come to admire her for. Even the few small bands of walkers they met shown respect and compassion. Life was held in the highest regard by the members of Raya's family. And death treated with the honor it deserved.

"Barkin' up the wrong tree there, Hoss," the second man said in a deeply accented voice. Rick tried to place where the man could be from but couldn't get any closer than somewhere near the border. _New Mexico maybe_ , he reasoned as he tried to get a look at the man's face. "Just shootin' the feller she's screwin' is gonna piss off Luthor."

"Yeah?" The first man, _Hoss_ , grunted. "And why's that?"

"You want to deal with a woman trained by the Bat?"

_Bat_? Rick wondered. _Who the hell is the Bat_?

"Boss is sure then she's the Fenix?"

_Fenix? Who's the Fenix? Are they talking about Raya_? He frowned with his confusion and growing suspicion. Was it possible she was some sort of government agent? A spy, perhaps? It would certainly explain some of those combat skills she displayed when she _thought_ he wasn't paying attention. His lips trembled, curved. He had to admit that the woman could throw a punch that would make any boxer proud. And her feet were even more lethal than her hands. His own body throbbed with the memory of those blows. He couldn't begin to imagine the agony of those who had received them.

"Oh, there ain't no doubt about it," the one he christened New Mexico said. "Not after seein' her beat the shit outta Nico and his boys earlier this afternoon. She's the Fenix." He spat on the ground. "That's why killin' the pig and the other brat is a bad idea. Just invitin' a whole mess of trouble we don't need now."

"Then why is 12 allowing it?" Hoss questioned as he lit another cigarette. "If all this is gonna do is us get our nuts in a sling, why is he allowing it?"

"'Cause he's a dumb shit, that's why." There was the click of a safety being taken off. A quick peek showed Rick how each man carried an assault rifle. "C'mon, we better get our asses back," New Mexico told Hoss. "Got five minutes before the shit hits the fan."

Hoss took one last puff of his cigarette before snuffing it out and sticking it in his pocket. "Let's hope we don't get the shit sprayed on us."

Rick listened to them walk away, feeling electric currents of anxiety and anticipation dance in his veins and pool in his belly. These men were not only hell-bent on kidnapping Christopher and taking him to this Luthor fella, but they were also planning on killing Rose. Rick felt his entire body clench as that fact washed over him. Well, it wasn't going to happen. Not without him having a goddamn say in the matter. That these men also planned to kill him didn't overly matter. Way Rick saw it? He had lived his life. He had lived a good one. Rose, much like Carl was just beginning hers. Made hers the most important one to save. The light tread of footsteps broke into his dark thoughts and alerted him to someone making their way towards him.

A cool calm settled over Rick as he prioritized what threat he needed to handle first. It wasn't like he had to overly think of what he was going to handle first. He'd willingly taken Raya, Christopher, and Rose into his care. That made them his responsibility. His to defend and protect. He felt a shift deep within himself, recognized it as the man he was, that law-abiding, morally just and relatively peaceful man he'd been before waking up in the middle of this nightmare, receding into the dark recesses of his mind so that the other man he kept buried could handle this potential menace.

He crept over to a huge pile of wood left when the owners of the farm took off for the hills and paused, his gun held up in front of him, hammer cocked and finger curled around the trigger. He felt, more than heard, whoever was creeping along the other side. He took a deep breath, held it as he waited for them to reach the corner of the building. Without pausing to consider the danger or the possible ramifications of his actions, Rick swung around the wall to meet whoever was sneaking around. His eyes popped wide when he found himself face-to-face with an equally stunned Christopher.

"Where's your mother?" He asked as he slowly lowered his revolver to his side. "And Rose?"

"Waiting by the Bronco with Krypto," Christopher replied as he lowered the pitchfork he had grabbed before coming to give him a hand. "I told Mom to stay there with Rose while I came to get you."

A kernel of amusement flickered to life inside Rick at hearing that. _Kid, you gotta lot to learn about women_ …

"See," he couldn't resist teasing the boy. "That's where you went wrong." One of Christopher's dark brows arched in silent question. Rick sent him an easy grin. "You can't tell your mother to do something and expect she'll _actually_ do it."

"But..." A frown creased the boy's brow. "She didn't follow me."

"Knowing your mother? She probably went the other way."

The light of realization flicked on. "Shoulda known she wouldn't listen," he grumbled. "She _never_ listens. Not even when Grandpas Bruce, Jim, and Clark tell her to do something."

Sympathy and amusement welled inside Rick for his plight. He knew it wasn't easy being twelve. To be twelve and responsible for your mother and sister's care and well-being? Well, that was more than any teen could manage without some help.

"Your mom is..." He trailed off, fumbling for the right word to say that would politely express how Raya was stubborn as an ox. "Well, she's…"

"A mule," the teen helpfully supplied. "You don't gotta beat around the bush about it. Mom is a mule. You can admit it. Everyone else does."

Rick swallowed a laugh. "Yes..." he agreed with a slight nod. "Your mom is definitely very headstrong."

"No." Christopher shook his head. "Mom is light years beyond being _headstrong_. She's mule-headed is what she is. In fact," he huffed. "If you look up stubborn in the dictionary, you'll find her photograph."

_And yours, kid_. Wisely, Rick didn't point that fact out. Still, it was clear that obstinacy was a trait shared between mother and son. _That set to his jaw, though_ , he found himself thinking as he peeked around the corner of the building. _That was something he inherited from his father._ Rick found himself curious about the man who fathered Christopher. Who was Conner Kent? What was he like? Rick made a special note to ask Raya about him, and about how the man had died. _There's something about it that just doesn't sit right with me_ , he thought as he turned to the boy.

"Christopher." He set a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "Your mom is a fighter."

"You have no idea..."

No, he didn't have any idea, Christopher was right about that. However, Rick vowed that just as soon as they were somewhere safe that he was gonna start asking the questions that he had avoided out of respect for her privacy. _It's time that she gives me some answers_ , he thought as he signaled for the boy to follow him. _I can't help her if I don't know the truth_. Something, though, told him - warned him was more like it - that he might come to regret what some of those answers might be.

…

"Pathetic," he spat into the trembling shadows. He shifted his massive frame to the side, bracing a large hand against a tree that groaned beneath his touch as he attempted to count the number of men gathered outside a large barn structure. "A handful of men making war upon a woman, her man, and children. What honor is there in this? What pride? Satisfaction?" He sniffed his disdain. "Bah!"

"Our men are spoiling for a fight," one of the men who stood with him at the edge of the property said. "This could be a way of allowing them to release their pent-up tension."

"An interesting proposal," the taller man mused as he watched the handful of buffoons sent here by Lex Luthor surround the front of the farmhouse in which the woman he, personally, had named the Fénix slumbered with her family. He half-turned to look down at the man. "Do you make it because you believe the men are spoiling for a fight, or because you think that the Fénix needs our help?"

His second-in-command, a man named Hernandez, was silent as he contemplated his answer.

"I think," he finally said, "these _vatos_ have become desperate. They believed they would easily kidnap the boy and return him to Luthor. After the Fénix defeated them with the help of _el sustituto_ , they saw it would not be so easy to take the boy from his mother."

"You think they will be willing to do anything to avoid this Luthor's wrath?"

"I think they are willing to do anything at this point in order not to fail, _si_."

He made a low, speculative sound deep in his throat as he pondered over what his follower had said. He had to admit that the man had a point. To carry out their mission and kidnap the _Hijo del Fénix_ , they needed to cut the number of people who surrounded the boy and kept him safe. The Fénix's _Esposito_ would be the first one these men would likely choose to either torture or kill.

_And they will take their time, dragging out the moment slowly, and as painfully as possible_ , he mused, fingers curling around a low hanging branch. _They will make the Fénix watch every blow and listen to the adjunto's every scream_. _And they will do so_ , he thought as the wood splintered in his hand. _While reminding her about how she could have avoided this had she given her son into the care of Luthor._

Disgust coiled in his belly and spread an inferno of rage throughout his body. "Pathetic," he hissed again. "Making war upon a woman, her man and children."

"Should I tell the men to prepare themselves for battle?" Hernandez phrased the question cautiously, knowing to tread lightly and keep his tone respectful. "Or do you wish them to stand down and wait?"

The man known to the criminal underworld as Bane contemplated his answer as he reached into the pocket of his pants for an item he had carried with him for close to three decades. Speckles of moonlight caressed the gold necklace he held up in one massive hand and curled around the muscles that bulged beneath his black leather jacket and mud-splattered fatigues. He had the build of a professional wrestler or bodybuilder and held his head high despite his less than ideal circumstances.

Dark eyes gleamed out of the holes cut into a mask that concealed nearly all his face from view. The mask, made from the same material as a _Luchadores_ , was all black save for a ghostly outline that covered his nose, mouth, and chin. Pipes ran along the edges of the mask to a pair of miniature canisters at the back of his skull. No sign of fear showed in his gaze as he lifted his head and swept the grounds in search of any of those infected by the virus that had slowly overtaken the globe.

"Tell them to wait for my signal," he spoke calmly, and with complete assurance. "We will wait and see what the Fénixdoes before deciding if we will get involved."

"It will be as you say."

Bane nodded and turned back to watch the farmhouse. He heard the hushed voices of his followers behind him but paid them no mind. No, his gaze was upon the shadows he saw moving along the side of the house. _So_ , he mused, the faintest smile curving his full lips, _the Fénix chooses flight over fight. A very wise decision_.

That she was choosing to sneak away under the cover of darkness did not surprise Bane any. It was what he would have done had he been in her place. _Cut your losses_ , he thought as a man in an ugly brown hat and the clothes of an _alguazil_ slowly rounded the corner with a small boy right behind him. _Live to fight another day_. The _ayudante_ held his silver revolver with the comfort and ease of a man unafraid to use such a weapon to defend himself or his woman and children from any who intended to cause them great physical harm.

Bane studied the man with a critical eye. He possessed a natural, easygoing gait and had the lean, disciplined body of one accustomed to action. He nodded his approval. The _Esposito de la Fénix_ needed to be a man of strength and honor. No less would be proper for a woman who possessed such fierce loyalty and courage. Deciding that there was no need for he and his men to intervene now that the family was making their way to their vehicle, he signaled to his men that it was time to leave.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to glance over his shoulder in time to see a _chiquita_ with hair as dark as the sky overhead making her way towards her papa. Even from this distance, he could see her skin was the color of honey. Those eyes would be the same deep shade of green and spark with the same fire he had seen in the eyes of another. _Does the daughter's heart burn with the same fire as that which is inside of her mother's_? A hum rumbled deep in his throat as he speculated about the answer.

The girl was soon joined by the Fénix and a huge white dog. Only the _Hija del Fénix_ interested him, however. As Bane stood there and watched as mother and daughter crossed the distance to where a dusty police vehicle sat, his thoughts drifted back to the night when he had discovered just how precious and rare things like courage and loyalty were. Especially when such things were found inside the heart of a _chiquilla_...

…

**Gotham, Waste Disposal**

_Thirty years before the outbreak_

It started as a giggle and eventually grew into a chuckle, then the Joker doubled over. His laughter became a shriek that cruised along Gordon's already frayed nerves and unraveled them. When he finally regained control of himself, he looked at Bane and said, "And I thought that I was the one who told bad jokes."

"Loyalty and courage are precious and rare. And honored when they are found. Especially," he stated as he turned and sauntered away, "when they are found in a _joven ave fénix_."

"And where do you think you're going?" All joviality fled when the Joker realized he had lost control of the situation. "Huh?"

"I have told you, _payaso_." Bane leisurely strolled towards a large armored vehicle that had pulled up at the opposite end of the parking lot. "I do not make war upon _chiquilla's_."

"I want my money's worth!"

"You have gotten it." Bane glanced at him from over one shoulder. "You hired me to break the Batman. And I have done so."

"Kill the Batman," he ordered in a petulant voice, "or else the little-"

Before the clown could even finish his sentence, Bane had him by the throat and was lifting him into the air. The Joker choked on a laugh and kicked his feet, but was unable to free himself from the assassin's clutches.

"Harm the _fénix_ and I will break you, _payaso loco_."

"Do what you were paid to do," the Joker wheezed. "Or the little birdie will have her wings clipped."

"Who do you think you are?" Bane tightened his grip upon the clown's throat. "You do not order me around as if I am one of your flunkies. Continue to do so and I will end our partnership." He tossed the clown to the ground as if he was little more than a paper doll. " _Permanently_."

Bane turned and saw the child watched him with eyes that glowed with courage he knew came from conviction, and the sort of loyalty only born from love and respect.

"Remember this night, _Fénix_ ," he told her. "And the name which I have given you."

Then he walked to where his men waited beside an armored SUV.

He did not look back.

...

Loyalty and courage were still precious and rare to him. They were things he continued to feel should be honored when found. Especially in a world being taken to the brink of destruction. It needed ones with hearts and intentions as pure and noble as those belonging to the _Fénix_.

And to her daughter, as well.

" _Merde_! Look!"

A hailstorm of gunfire accompanied Hernandez's cry. Bane glanced over and saw Luthor's men taking aim at a bunch of ragtag figured stumbling out from behind the house. Bane turned his head and watched, deeply transfixed by the group of shambling figures shuffling through an open partition of the fence. He quickly counted twenty adults in shredded and stained clothing, their heads lolling drunkenly upon their mangled and twisted necks, with maggots and other bugs falling from the open wounds in their faces, from their exposed abdominal cavities, and from their torn and putrefied fingers.

They lurched out one by one, spreading out like a tsunami as it came racing towards shore. All of them were in various stages of decomposition, their bodies rotting away a bit more with every rolling step they took. None of them could take that last step needed into that long goodnight because of whatever virus it was that caused them to stay in this state. S _ome_ , Bane realized as he stared at one blonde woman, her once hazel eyes now a feral shade of yellow, were newly turned. _How long ago was it_? he found himself wondering. By his estimate, it had only been a matter of days.

The adults were soon followed by a handful of adolescents in torn and ragged clothing. Some had their heads hanging precariously to one side, others with cannonball-sized holes in their chests, and the rest had their intestines spilling out from what once had been their stomach cavities. Disgust and a heavy dose of horror crashed over Bane. He had seen and done many despicable things while living in _Peña Duro_ , but even he had not seen anything like this. _Is this what I will find when I return to Santa Prisca_? _Will I find nothing more than these animated remains_?

The thought was more than a troubling one.

He could tell the exact moment when the keen senses of smell that these _depredadores_ picked up their scent. Their eyes gleamed in the shadows and their bloody maws started working in anticipation of a taste of fresh meat. Muzzles belched fire. Bullets slammed into the fence posts and decaying bodies, chipping away at the wood and spraying slivers of paint and blood everywhere. The absolute lack of any other noise served to amplify the deafening roar of the guns, making him think of canon fire. The acrid stench of cordite mingled with that of the stench of the undead themselves.

"What should we do?" one of his men asked. "Should we help to stop these creatures?"

"Stand down," Bane told him in a calm, sure voice. "And wait."

"It will be as you say," the man immediately replied. "We await your signal."

As one, he and his men watched as Luthor's men fell back against the house, taking cover behind abandoned vehicles while continuing to fire upon the motley crew of infected. In the dense shadows, it was difficult to make out just how many of the undead there actually were. Bane realized the numbers could be much more than the small bands that they had met as they made their way South. He was about to order his men to fan out and make sure that the Fénix and her family came to no harm when a sudden explosion lit up the night and halted the words before he could say them.

" _Madre de Dios_!"

Some of his followers gasped as the doors of the house blew inwards in a shower of broken wood and glass. Great plumes of dense smoke blanketed the area, making visibility low. Bane twisted around when he heard a small voice crying out. _In pain or fear_? He couldn't tell which. A sweeping glance showed him nothing. He had no idea where either the Fénix or her _hija_ were at that moment.

The horde of undead came stumbling through the smoke, groaning with their insatiable hunger and thirst, and their eyes gleaming with their intention to satiate it. Bane curled his fingers about the necklace draped over the back of his fingers. He could not stand by and allow Luthor or this world to make war upon a woman who had never been anything, but good and kind and decent to him.

It was dishonorable.

It was unconscionable.

It was... _unthinkable_.

"Ready the men," he ordered Hernandez. "Tell them to shoot anything that tries to harm the Fénix or a member of her _familia_."

He did not have to make the request twice.

 


	31. Chapter 31

Rick could only stand there and watch, horribly transfixed, as walkers came lurching out of the trees at the edge of the property. Three became seven and seven soon became eleven. In almost no time at all, the yard overflowed with a reeking wave of undead. The creatures bumped into each other, shoved against one another, all of them groaning their terrible song of never-ending hunger. _It was_ , he dimly realized as his fingers tightened reflexively around the butt of his gun, one massive wall driven to quench their bloodlust in the only way they knew how: by feasting on the flesh of the living.

Some of the walkers went down after being hit by gunfire from the men in black, their brain matter splashing the faces of the walkers bumbling along behind them and staining the ground beneath their feet. Others took stray bullets in their lower extremities and chest cavities but kept right on coming, hardly flinching at the wounds or the pain being inflicted upon their ravaged bodies. They pressed on like brave little soldiers, what remained of some of their mouths clacking, joints creaking, and bones cracking. They came with fingers curved into talons, ready to grab hold of whatever morsel they could find and tear into it with their teeth.

The stench of their decaying bodies rose like a plume of smoke, mixing with the smell of burnt gunpowder, smoking wood and fresh blood. Their stink choked the air and caused Rick and Chris both to gag as it clawed its way down their throats into their already protesting bellies. The collective clamor of the walkers, their discordant sounds, all reminded Rick of the incessant buzzing of a busy beehive.

_A killer beehive_ , he amended as he aimed at one walker, a woman who reminded him of Morgan's wife, Jenny. She lurched forward to grab at him with torn and bleeding fingers, whining with her want, her need for sustenance. He squeezed the trigger, hating himself for doing it, but knowing he had no other choice. It was just one more unthinkable act to add to his ever steadily growing pile.

The bullet entered her left temple and exited out the right in a spray of gore and gray brain matter that caused his stomach to pitch and his breath to freeze in his throat. He kept shooting, though, pausing only long enough to reload his gun. The walkers stiffened as the bullets tore through the back of their fragile skulls. They went down but were quickly replaced by others all groaning the same song of blood and despair. Rick felt time slow to a crawl.

_Time_.

It could have been a minute, five, or twenty. All Rick knew when he looked up was that he and Chris were in deep shit. Seriously deep shit, in fact. They were in the middle of what amounted to a blitzkrieg. On one side was the undead army who desired to make him and Chris their featured snack. On the other were the men who desired to kidnap Chris and take him back to a man he'd believed, until a few minute ago, was nothing more than a fictional comic book villain. Options for getting out from between these opposing factions were limited. Actually doing so and not getting injured was even lower. The likelihood he would not see Lori and Carl again was now very high.

Rick knew he was going to die. He and Chris were trapped. They were effectively surrounded. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no hope of anybody showing up in time to help them both safely escape their predicament. Not even Raya, with all her skill and ingenuity, could stop the shrouded figure perched atop the pale horse from claiming him this time. A quick glance at Chris's face revealed that he knew it, too.

_I'm sorry_ , he told the ashen-faced boy silently. _I'm sorry your mom and I couldn't see this was gonna happen. I'm sorry we couldn't prevent it_. To his wife and son, he said all the things he hadn't been able to say before he got shot, that he hadn't known how to say, that he wouldn't get now to say. _I never told you what I really thought, how I really felt, never even so much as hinted at any of it. I just kept it all in. For that, I'm sorry. I wish I had it to do over again. I had hoped I would._

However, just because he was going to die didn't mean he wasn't going to take as many of these assholes with him as he could, first. If he could buy just ten seconds, it would be enough for Chris to make a run for it. Christopher must have sensed his thoughts because he shook his head.

"No."

Short and to the point. The way he said it, coupled with the hard as granite set to his jaw told Rick that getting him to obey would not be easy. _Like mother, like son_ , he thought with a small smile. _So I will treat him just as I do Miss Stubborn_.

"Yes," he said in a firm voice. "I want you to-"

"I'm not leaving you." Those eyes went as hard as green glass. "I'm not. And nothing you say is gonna make me."

Rick took a second he could ill afford to waste with the horde advancing to set a hand upon his shoulder. "Christopher, I need you to listen to me."

"I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself for me." He felt the tension in the boy, the barely contained sea of emotion, the overwhelming grief, and ached for it. For adding to it. "Not gonna do it, Mr. Grimes. Nah-uh." He shook his head. "No way. Nope. Not gonna happen."

Rick's heart wept at the pain he saw on that boyish face. A face that could be

"I'm not gonna make it," he told him brusquely. "We are trapped between walkers and the men sent here to take you away from your mother."

"Not letting you sacrifice yourself for me."

He tightened his grip on that small shoulder. "If sacrificing myself allows you to live, well, that's fine with me."

"No," the boy growled the word with an intensity that almost forced Rick back a step. "We either go together or we don't go at all."

"I'm not your father," he said. "But I am the one who is here. And that means it falls to me to set the tone, to teach you as I would Carl about how a man walks and carries himself in times like this."

"No." The anguish in Chris's voice, upon his face, tore at Rick. There was nothing he could do about it, though. A glance showed him another wave of the undead had joined with the remaining few to form a solid wall of bodies steadily coming towards them. "Mom will save us-"

"Your mom can't save me."

"Yes, she can. She _can_ ," Christopher insisted even as Rick shook his head. "She will figure out a way to get all of us outta this situation. Trust me."

"Chris-"

"You don't know my mom like I know her," the teen insisted in a voice that bordered upon a shout. "She's not just some stay-at-home mom. She's a-"

"… former police officer," Rick cut in, nodding. "Yeah, I know. But that-"

"She's squared off against worse odds and gotten out alive. She-"

"Enough." Rick squeezed his shoulder again. "We don't have time to waste arguing about this. I've made my decision and that's all there is to it."

"But-"

"The second you see an opening," he said over Chris's objection, "you run. And you don't look back until you reach your mom and sister. Got it?"

Christopher gave in with a huffed, "Fine."

Rick squeezed his shoulder once more before he turned to fire at the nearest walker. He saw it fall to the ground, its lifeless eyes staring up at the sky quickly changing colors. In that moment, his life became totally clear. He saw everything and understood why, _perfectly_. He knew what he had to do, he knew what he was going to do, and he wasn't stopping to think or worry about how he was going to feel about it tomorrow.

Because there wouldn't be any more tomorrows for him to worry about.

Another walker stumbled out in front of him. Rick could hear the snap of its jaw as it worked its mouth. He could smell its fetid breath. He used to believe that the only thing that smelled this bad was an animal carcass left to rot in the sun for weeks. Now he knew there was nothing that smelled as foul as a member of the walking dead. Another walker joined the first, mouth making chewing motions and fingers opening and closing like a vice. It quickly joined the first in the afterlife.

"Go," he ordered Chris. " _Now_!"

"No-"

" _Go_!"

Chris glared at him for one precious second but finally obeyed his command. Rick started to reload his gun, oddly detached and weirdly relaxed. A loud, animalistic sounding roar sounded above the discordant droning, but Rick took no notice of it. He heard the wet whisper of a walker as it moaned behind him, felt its breath blow across the back of his neck and knew that the end had come. He made to turn, to meet death face-to-face, but there was the familiar _thwack_ of an arrow soaring through the air. A squishy sound less than a second later said it had found a home in the head of the walker trying to make a meal out of him.

Rick turned his head and spotted Raya across the courtyard. She stood with her feet splayed apart, her posture loose, the bow she held in her hands steady as a rock. She reminded him of pictures he had seen of the Greek Goddess, Artemis. He was about to call out to her, to tell her to take Rose and Chris and go, but another line of the undead erupted from behind the small, oddly painted cottage.

"Shit..." he muttered as he slowly turned to face them.

…

_Time_.

Everything happening at that moment came down to time. It always came down to time. A second, a minute, an hour. All three were entities that belonged to the same linear property. Knowing if she had seconds, minutes or hours could make all the difference in the world between whatever plan she came up with either being a success or a complete and utter failure. Here, one second, barely the length of time that it took for any of them to draw a breath, was what would make all the difference in the world between Rick living and dying. Less than half a second was the amount of time it would take for her to notch an arrow and let it fly across the gaping chasm standing between Rick and certain death.

_Time_.

Raya hated it with a passion.

All she knew once the red haze lifted was that Rick wasn't dead. _Well_ , she amended as she reached for another arrow, _he's not dead, yet_. The mob that stumbled towards him would clearly love to change his status from _alive_ to _breakfast_. Once that thought registered, once she realized this was Conner all over again, she let her conscious mind take a backseat. Everything inside her shifted, settled into the compartments she'd constructed to hold her thoughts and emotions, and allowed the hunter she learned she needed to become, to rise.

She notched an arrow while watching the advancing horde. Even amidst all the chaos and noise, she could hear that damned droning. She took aim at a girl all of sixteen, feeling her blood pump through her veins, her heart pound, and her belly churn. She breathed in as she slowly drew the bow-string back. She shut out the moans of the damned, the _rat-ta-tat-tat_ of the assault rifles going off around her, blocked out the smell of blood, cordite, and death. Her hand was steady on the bow, her fingers sure...

She let out the breath she'd been holding and let the arrow fly. She watched it enter the girl's eye socket and exit out the back of her skull, spraying blood and brain matter everywhere. Things started running in systematic bursts. Every time she thought they had cleared the last of them, the undead came from somewhere else. It was almost like a walking dead convention was in town and every walker had decided to attend. Raya dropped down behind the fence in order to reload her quiver with arrows she'd plucked from her victims and found herself nose-to-nose with Rick. A glance revealed Kai across the way with Krypto and Rose. Her relief was only fleeting, though.

"You okay?" Rick asked her in a voice that was not as steady as it normally was. When she only nodded, he took a moment they really didn't have to rest a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get you, Rose and Christopher, out of this," he vowed quietly. "Somehow, I will get you out of this."

"Thinking we gonna need a bigger shovel to get out of this."

His lips twitched, but he did not smile. "Just be ready." He raised his revolver, his finger on the trigger and his face hard as stone. "On the count of three..."

Raya readied an arrow.

"One…"

There was a bark and a blur of white as Krypto attacked one of Luthor's men. Bullets pinged the fence and the walkers closest to them, spraying them in wood, blood, and bone fragments.

"Two…"

The trio of walkers who came at them had open holes in what had once been their abdominal and chest cavities. These dead had been undead longer than the others. _Not that it matters one way or another_ , Raya thought as she lifted her bow. They were all about to be granted the oblivion that whatever had done this to them, refused to grant them. Her heart wept as she drew the string back.

"Three!" Rick shouted as he came out of his crouch and fired.

Raya stood and fired an arrow at the first mangled body that she saw. She wasn't sure where exactly in their cranial cavity that the arrow hit, and she didn't really care. She just continued firing arrows until there were none left in her quiver. Then, and only then, did she stop. It was quiet save for an occasional moan and burst of gunfire. _Where did the rest of the horde go_? she wondered as she looked around. They were all gone. They'd killed them. They were dead. _No_ , she thought, her brow puckering into a frown. That wasn't right. They couldn't all be dead. There had been at least twenty of them when she stood up with Rick. They couldn't have killed them all.

Could they?

She was about to say something to Rick when she spied a hulking figure wading through a group of Luthor's men. Raya's blood went cold and burned beneath her skin as she watched him smack a member of Luthor's men against the side of the house as if he was little more than a gnat. Her only thought as she slowly turned to face the monster tearing across the yard towards her son and daughter, _if Bane is here…_

…

In next to no time, the yard was overrun by a swarm of undead. Nearly every inch of lawn, square inch of dirt, nook, and cranny, filled by something that had once been a living, breathing, and fully functioning human being. The undead bumped into one another as they clawed at the wood fence isolating them from the rest of their group, got tangled up in rusted farm equipment, or as they walked into the side of the stable over and over.

Luthor's men retreated to a safe distance, shuddering as the wave of infected came towards them and responding by emptying the clips of their guns in them. The more that dropped to the ground, the more replaced them. Their choral of hunger echoed above the _rat-ta-tat-tat_ of assault rifles and the curses of the men all trying to evade becoming their next meal. It was the epitome of a living nightmare and only going to get much worse before it might ever get better.

Bane waded through the smoke, searching for the Fénix and her _hija_. Dozens of undead fell around him, bullets chipping away at their decaying flesh and slamming into their cranial cavities with enough force to spin them in a circle. Random bodies got in his way, and he brutally knocked them aside, hard enough that they slammed into the side of the stable and either got hung up on slivers of wood broken free from the building or slid down to sit like broken dollies in the dirt. They did not stay down for long.

Not that it mattered to Bane. Finesse or care wasn't an option or a concern to him at that moment. All that mattered was ensuring the safety of a woman and her family. If his actions seemed unusual to those who followed him, they did not say. They knew better than to question. Not that he would have explained himself to them, anyway.

One of Luthor's men, firing upon a member of the infected, had the misfortune of being in his way. Bane snapped the man's neck with a single blow, then casually tossed his body aside if it was nothing. He trampled over half-dozen other bodies, some still clinging to life, but many otherwise. His eyes scanned the yard, looking for the only one who mattered. _Where is she_? Bane thought impatiently. _Where is the Hija del Fénix_?

He spied the _alguacil_ and the Fénix putting down the last of a trio of undead. The cool disgust that rippled across her face, the sting of bitter regret inside her eyes reminded him again about how hers was a heart that beat with loyalty and courage. Bane heard another whimper and twisted around to see the _chiquita_ and her brother being pursued by two of Luthor's men. Rage pumped through his veins as he made his way in their direction. The white dog attacked the first man while the second, a pale-skinned man let out a screech when he spied Bane coming towards him. He went to aim his gun to stop him, but Bane grabbed him by the throat and hefted him high into the air before he could get a shot off.

"You make war upon women and children," he spat at the man. "For that, you will die."

"Hel-"

Bane crushed his throat, silencing the man forever. He tossed the body to the ground with a grunt before he turned to look at the small girl gazing up at him with eyes so much like her _Madre's_. Even with death surrounding her, the _chiquilla_ faced him without fear _._

"Ba-Bane," the boy stuttered. "Wh-what are you do-doing here?"

Bane's gaze remained riveted upon his sister. "Courage and loyalty are rare," he rumbled as he reached out and took hold of the tiny hand of the _Hija del Fénix. "_ And should be honored when such is found."

Her fingers trembled against his but her eyes remained firmly locked upon his. _Courage in the midst of fear_. Same as her mother possessed. He placed the necklace he had carried for all these years in the middle of her palm and closed her fingers around it. She looked down at the pendant and then back at him, her eyes openly questioning.

"Mr. Bane?" she asked in the same musical tones as the _Fénix_. "What's this?"

"On the night I found this necklace," he replied. "I met a _niñita_ with eyes like yours, and a heart as pure and noble as the gold used to fashion that bat-shaped pendant. On that night I named her the Fénix. For she was like the mythological flame-bird, set to rise from the ashes and return hope to the forsaken."

"Mom?" The _Hija del Fénix_ turned to watch as her mother slammed an elbow into the face of one of Luthor's men before spinning to kick another in the jaw with the toe of her boot. "You named my mom the _Fénix?"_

He nodded. "Yes, little _Sunbird_. It was I who gave the _Fénix_ her name. Same as," he added as a moan sounded on their right. "I have now named _you_."

He turned then to crush the skull of an undead woman with the heel of his boot. He heard movement and turned to look at the woman who had shown him what true loyalty and courage looked like so many years ago.

"Bane...?" Surprise tinged the Fénix's voice, shone upon her pale face. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Gotham?"

"I return to _Santa Prisca_ to help my countrymen survive this pandemic."

"But…" She shook her head. "Isn't this the long way home for you?"

"The roadblocks set up have made returning home difficult. As," he added with a pointed look, "you have discovered for yourself."

"I-I still don't understand, though? Why?" The _Fénix_ glanced over her shoulder to where his followers were dealing with the last of the horde. "I know you were one of those hired by Luthor to bring my son to him." She looked back at him. "Why are you stopping them from taking him?"

"Luthor, much like the _payaso_ , makes war upon women and children," he responded in a low, dark rumble. " _I_ do not."

Her eyes reflected her understanding of his meaning. She opened her mouth to reply, but the _ayudante_ arrived and cupped his hand around her elbow.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a breathless voice. "Damn it, Ra-"

"We're fine," she quickly assured him. "Bane helped us."

"Bane?" A frown puckered the brow of the _alguacil_. Then he glanced over to where Bane stood, his arms folded across his massive chest and his booted feet spread apart. His face showed his confusion and fear but Bane saw he moved in front of the Fénix _._ Loyalty and courage in the face of danger. "I-"

"Go," Bane ordered as he turned away. "Take your _familia_ far from this place. And," he said over his shoulder, "protect them with your life."

"I will," _Sustituto_ Rick promised. "What about-"

Shuffling feet distracted them. A glance showed Bane that a boy about the same age as the one standing a few inches to Bane's left was making his way towards them, his eyes feral in the twilight and gore dripping from his open mouth to stain the front of his once white t-shirt.

"My followers and I shall handle things here," he told them. " _Vaya con Dios_."

A glance at his face must have convinced him to do as Bane requested. He picked up the _chiquita_ and moved to the dusty SUV as Bane knocked the youth away with a massive blow to the side of his head. He was about to finish the boy off when he heard the Fénix whisper, "Thank you."

Seeing no point in replying, Bane nodded before he lunged, grabbing hold of one of Luthor's men and tossing them into a group of the infected. They fell upon the man in a hungered frenzy. His agonized screams covered up the sound of squealing tires.


	32. Chapter 32

**Georgia**

_Day 69 (After Midnight)_

The world buzzed by the window. Yet Raya saw none of it. Her mind was still in a whirl over what happened at the farmhouse just a short time ago. _Bane, Luthor's men, who the hell else is going to pop up_? She found herself wondering. _Crane? Riddler? God forbid, Slade_?

Of all of those, the one she dreaded running into the most was Slade Wilson. Slade's combat skills alone made him more than a dangerous adversary. Couple that with the fact that he possessed an uncanny ability to predict her every move and it equaled trouble. Her own safety wasn't why she cringed at a possible confrontation between him and her, though. She had gotten into physical confrontations with Slade a few times over the years. Always with Bruce or Dick or even Oliver there to help her. Usually, their disagreements had to do with Rose. As much as she tried to forget, to ignore, to deny the truth of it, Slade Wilson _was_ Rose's biological father. While it certainly did not afford him his parental rights in a world with no courts to decide upon the matter, it did not mean he did not have a say or a place in his only daughter's life. _That's another of the problems between me and Slade_ , she thought as Rick turned onto the highway. _He doesn't want to be a part of her life. Not unless it suits him. And she deserves more than a some-a-time father_.

And there was the reason for why her stomach curdled at the mere thought of a meeting between them and Slade. It all rest squarely upon the mercenary's irrational belief that she and Rose belonged to him. _As if we are a piece of property that he bought and can visit when he wants_. Her fists curled into balls where they rest on her knees as over a decade worth of anger and hurt cruised along her already fragmented nerves. _We're not his property. And we deserve a lot more than being treated as such._ A voice that sounded suspiciously like her own whispered to her about how neither Daryl nor Rick treated them like that. It was a hard point to deny, much less refute. However, neither was a road she could take. Any man, unless he was a member of her family, Slade went after with a vengeance and a gun. _He even went after Barry_ , she recalled as the Bronco bounded over a pothole.

His attack upon Barry, his jealous outbursts, and his inability to accept that neither Rose or herself belonged to him had all played a hand in her decision to pack up her small family and move them as far away from Gotham as she could. Slade had influenced a great many of the decisions she made over the last ten years. One of the biggest things she decided had been to not get involved with anybody intimately. _Can't risk your heart if you keep it closed off_. Until she'd met Rick and Daryl, she'd been fine with remaining unattached. She'd been more than fine with it, in fact. Slade couldn't hurt anybody if there was nobody for him to go after. If she ever felt lonely, well, she called Dick, Jason or Tim, asked them to come visit for a few days.

If people asked her about why she didn't date, she'd laughingly reply it was because all the "good men were taken." It was a lie, of course. All the good men hadn't been taken. She had just been too afraid of being hurt again to go out and look for them. _He will kill Rick,_ was the thought that played in a continuous loop through her mind. _He will kill him for no other reason than because he is traveling with us and doing what he has never been able to bring himself to do: take care of us._

Not that she'd stand by and allow it to happen, of course. Should Slade crawl out of whatever hole he had found to hide in, should he track them down, she would do whatever was necessary to keep Rick from becoming another of his victims. _I won't let Slade murder him just because he can't accept that I am not, and never will be, his_ , she thought, gaze drawn to where some old washing machines and other household goods had been dumped along the side of the road. The way she saw it, Slade had made his choice when he had opted to seek revenge upon Oliver instead of focusing on his family and his responsibilities. He needed to live with his decision. He needed to accept his choices and move on.

Same as she had done.

"We need to get off the road," she heard Rick say in a quietly subdued voice. "Find somewhere so we can regroup and figure out what we're gonna do next."

There was an edge inside that warm, rich voice. His face was covered in dirt, dust, blood, and bits of other gore, but there was a steely determination to it that said he wasn't down and that he was far from out. Should another threat emerge, he'd be right there, doing whatever it took to make sure they survived.

"There's likely other homes and farms up ahead," she murmured. "Pretty sure we can find something that will fit the bill."

Rick replied by nodding his head. His fingers flexed upon the steering wheel, the only outward sign of his unsettled state. She wished she knew what words to say that would ease his worries and concerns. If Raya was being truly honest with herself, she would admit she cared about Rick Grimes far more than was prudent, and much more than she should. Their attraction, if one wanted to call it such, was caused by their shared proximity and circumstances.

They were in the middle of an apocalypse, had the pale rider lurking around every turn, and were the only two adults standing between big daddy Reaper and her children. Being attracted to each other was healthy. Normal even. More than that, she liked Rick. He was good and kind and honorable. He had a strong moral fiber, fought on the same side of the law she did, protected those in his care at the expense of himself, and believed in many of the same tenets she did. So, if she worried about him more than was safe, well, she figured it was okay. It was a small bit of normal inside the abnormal world they had been dumped into. She set a hand that trembled more than she cared for upon his shoulder.

"Hey, we're okay. We got out of there. We made it."

"I know." He flicked eyes that were stormy as a sea towards her. "But we might not have."

"Rick-"

"Raya, we almost got killed tonight."

The way he said it, that frustrated, verbal explosion triggered memories of similar conversations she had with...

_Conner_.

The thought flashed into her, brighter than a shooting star, and halting whatever it was she had been about to say. For a moment, Raya could do nothing but stare at Rick, taking in that granite face, those electric eyes. It was like looking at an older, more mature version of Conner. Oh, there were plenty of differences, sure. However, the most important features, the ones she saw when she thought of the man she loved and lost, were there. _That's why I feel for him as I do_ , she thought with a small hitch of wonder. _He reminds me of Conner_.

For once, thinking about Conner, about the life they'd had, the one that had been cruelly ripped from them by her father and an unknown assassin, didn't fill her with the copious amounts of bitter regret it normally did. She felt… _free_. It was like a weight off her shoulders. Her heart was lighter; freer. Managing to save Rick, to stop him from becoming the star at the walker family dinner had taken back the part of her she'd lost with Conner's death. History hadn't repeated itself. She hadn't been forced to choose between two people she loved. She hadn't been forced to stand there and watch, helpless as a newborn lamb, as someone else died because of her. _I didn't fail Rick as I did Conner_ , she realized, her breath catching. _I saved him_.

Raya allowed that truth to wash over her, into her. She had managed to stop the unthinkable from happening. She had found a way to stop the pale rider from claiming his soul. She stopped this cold, cruel world from claiming another innocent life. The knots she'd been twisted into the moment Kai announced there were men outside the farmhouse started to loosen. Her relief, though, was only fleeting. Her stomach heaved as a high, keening laugh filled the car's interior less than thirty seconds later, shattering the illusion she'd foolishly allowed herself to create and reminding her that there was one other skeleton in her closet that she feared would find them.

"Ya didn't forget about your old, Uncle J, now did ya, Princess?"

Raya felt her entire body stiffen as the sound of that chalky voice filled her ears. _No_ , she thought with rising dread. _No, it's not real._ He's _not real. There's no way he is here. There's just no way_ … Another low cackle had a chill crawling along her spine, wrap itself around her throat and cinch tight.

Her heart pounded; her blood pumped.

She glanced into the windshield, her breath short and shallow. Any minute she expected to catch a glimpse of that pasty-white face, those green eyes shining with glee, those mangled lips twisted into that crimson grin as he rose up behind Rose and Christopher. She could hear that slippery voice, clear as day as he giggled, "Did ya miss me? Well, did ya, Pumpkin'?"

_You're not real_ , she told the absent Jester of Genocide. _You're not here_. _You're just a figment of my imagination, a manifestation of my fears and a product of my current circumstances_.

"Isn't it funny how one little voice inside your head can cleave off little pieces of yourself, deform your memories and blur reality until you think you're going mad?"

_You are not real_ , she repeated over and over. _You are not here. You're just a creation of my mind, a hallucination my overwrought state has conjured and something that this world is using to taunt me with_.

"Tell me, baby cakes," he giggled. "What are you really scared of? Failing to save the copper? Not stopping me before I kill one of your birds? Me, finally getting the last laugh?"

A tear slithered down her cheek as she shook her head. His voice, his taunts, his threats, drained away the last bit of energy she had. She felt herself sliding away, felt every inch of the Fenix disintegrating into ashes.

…

"I think now would be a damned good time for you to start explaining some things," Rick said after some moments passed. "Starting with who the hell that man was and how do you know him? And don't even try to give me any of that we don't have the time for you to explain everything bullshit. I think that I deserve..." Turning his head, hands cinched upon the wheel, Rick's firm demand shifted to immediate concern when he saw Raya's face had drained of what little color it had. "Raya? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's just the last bit of the shock and adrenaline ebbing." She did her best to smile but accomplished little more than a grimace. "I'll be okay in a few minutes."

"Bullshit," he retorted without heat or malice. "Now, tell me, what's wrong."

"Noth-" she began but a voice from the backseat chimed in.

"Mom?" There was a stark ripple of concern in Kai's voice, upon his face. "Mom, what is it?"

Rick knew the panic was like an icy poker jabbing her in the belly. Her breath was coming in short, painful gasps. Still, the woman managed to paste a reassuring smile upon her face for her son.

"Just a headache, baby," she said in a breathy voice. "That's all. Just a headache. I will be fine in a bit."

Rick just shook his head and returned his eyes to the road. "Why are you so damn stubborn about everything?"

"I'm not being stubborn. It's just a headache. Nothing to get your boxers in a bunch over."

"Bullshit." He didn't say it unkindly. Facts were facts in his mind. She looked like death warmed over. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Rick." The hand on his shoulder trembled for just a second. "It's just a migraine, I promise."

"So, you are white as a sheet just for the hell of it?" He shook his head. "Don't think so."

"Rick-"

"Raya, you're shaking." He spoke brusquely. "And your hand is like ice."

…

She forced herself to calm down. Losing her cool at that moment would only alarm him even more than he already was. He would ask questions she couldn't answer. Keeping it together, that was essential. Prevaricate. Offer nothing that would give away the truth. Protect the family at any and all costs. Even as she ordered herself to breathe, slow and steady, the air wheezed in her lungs, clogged there until she was almost gulping for it.

"Aw, whatsa matter, dearie? Don't you want the copper meeting your ole, Uncle J?"

Sweat ran cold and clammy on her skin, and she smelled her own fear. If it was just her that the Joker could hurt if he found her would be one thing. However, it wasn't just her. It was Rose and Christopher. And Rick. _He has never faced someone of the Joker's caliber_. _He has never dealt with someone the Joker's brand of evil_. She knew he wouldn't stand a chance against a man with the infamous record of the Clown Prince of Crime. The edges of her vision blurred as she heard another high-pitched laugh echo through the vehicle. It took every ounce of willpower to not spew what little contents were in her stomach all over the dash and floor.

"Stop the car, Rick," she gritted through clenched teeth. " _Please_."

"Ra-"

"Please," she moaned. "Just stop the fucking car."

The minute the car slowed, the nausea hit, a bright bite of pain. She stumbled out the door, nearly collapsed to her knees in the moist earth, but somehow made it around to the front of the car before she was violently ill. She heard the worried exclamations of Rose and Chris, Krypto's concerned yip, and Rick's order for all three to stay in the car. She couldn't do anything to reassure them until the nausea passed. When she finished, she leaned back against the front end of the Bronco and waited for the shaking to stop.

"Yeah." Rick sighed as he set a comforting hand on the back of her neck. "You're just fine." He handed her a bottle of water. "Here, drink some of this. It'll help."

She cracked the bottle and took a small sip, swishing it around in her mouth and spitting it out before saying, "Thank you."

"Why won't you tell me what is really wrong?" He rubbed the back of her neck in slow, soothing circles that had her sighing with relief. "Why won't you let me help?"

_Because you can't help_ , she told him silently. _You can't fight the man hovering around us_. _Even Bruce has lost to him_. Aloud though she told him, "There's nothing wrong, Rick. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

She could well imagine how she looked.

"I just got sick to my stomach." Self-conscious and on edge, she scooped a hand through her hair. "Nerves, stress, adrenaline, fear. It just all came apart at the same time. And I got a little sick because of it. I'm okay now."

…

Hollow-eyed, pale, and far from fine was Rick's opinion. He told himself to back off, to leave his lecture for when she felt better. Yet he couldn't back off and leave her alone to deal with whatever any more than he could leave a stray kitten limping on the side of the road.

"You wanna talk about the real reason for why you just got sick all over the front bumper?"

"No."

She didn't growl it. No, Raya just sounded completely exhausted. He gentled his tone.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to get into it, that's why." She gave him a pointed look. "So, please, drop it."

"No." He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not gonna drop it. Not this time."

He watched those jewel-toned eyes flicker for only the briefest of seconds with something other than that glacier calm. The crack in her mask was just enough that it allowed him a glimpse of the place where all her fears, anger and hurt dwelled in wild abandon. The demons chasing this woman did so with an almost feral glee. It was, even more, proof about how with this woman came baggage. A _lot_ of baggage. Much of it that he suspected she internalized in the same ways he did.

"Why are you being so persistent about this?" Her voice was hardly a whisper. "Why is it so important that I tell you about what caused me to have a meltdown?"

"You look pretty rough, is why," he admitted with a sigh. "And I want to help you."

"You can't help me, Rick." She took another sip of water. "That's the problem."

"Why can't I?"

Too tired to argue, she slouched against the front end of the car.

"The people coming after me, after my son, after my entire family? They are like nothing you have ever met before."

"I think I handled things back there well enough with those men."

"You did more than an admirable job dealing with Luthor's men. However, those men are just the start of what could come after us."

One dark brow lifted at that. "That was just the start of what could come after you?"

"Yes."

"So, you're telling me you have enemies that are worse than a bunch of rifle-toting assholes?"

"Rick, the enemies I have are the sort that even the scum tends to fear."

"I'm a cop," he reminded her. "I am trained to deal with all sorts of situations."

"Not these." She shook her head, sighed. "These people are even more dangerous than the undead."

His brow furrowed. "How can there be anything, or anyone more dangerous than walkers?"

"The walkers don't have control over their actions. They lack the ability to stop themselves. These criminals choose not to do so because they don't care about who they hurt."

"I'm not afraid of these criminals, Raya. And I'm not about to leave you alone to face them."

…

_God, it just isn't fair_ , she thought, bitter tears stinging her eyes and kicking at the pieces of her never healed heart. If only she had met Rick before Slade. If only he wasn't married. If only she was a less honorable woman. If only… _I could be happy_. There was no happy ending for her, though. No Prince Charming. No riding off into the sunset. Superheroes didn't get forever. Hadn't she learned that with Conner?

"Do you remember you have a wife and son out there, Rick? Do you remember they need you?"

"I haven't forgotten about Lori and Carl," he assured her. "But you tug at me, too." His expression softened. Almost vulnerable, full of confusion, filled with determination. "You have since I first met you. Seeing you looking like an animal that's been cornered, well, it bothers me. I am not gonna abandon you when there are wolves circling you and those kids. That ain't the sort of man I am."

No, it wasn't the type of man he was. That was what made things even more difficult for her. _Twice_ , she thought bitterly. _Twice I have met a man who is everything I could want and need. And neither one turned out to be someone I can be with_. Of course, why she couldn't be with Daryl was different from why she couldn't be with Rick.

Daryl chose Merle over her.

Just like Merle told her he would.

Raya buried her hurt and watched Rick scan the road. She had no right to be tugging at him. Not when his wife was out there and there was a chance they could reconcile. It was past time she stopped avoiding the inevitable and made him see there was no future for them.

"Rick, we can't do this."

He turned to her, one brow arched. "We can't do what?"

"We can't go on as we have been. We can't continue to pretend there is not something there between us. We both know there is. And in a perfect world, you'd be everything I would look for in a man. Kind, decent, honorable. But the fact remains you're married. There can never be any sort of us because of it."

"How do you know that you're right?" he grated out in a harsh whisper. "What makes you so goddamn sure?"

"My heart tells me they are out there and that they're waiting for you."

"Your heart could be wrong." He took the water bottle from her and took a sip. "And the fact is, there is something between us. Pretending there's not doesn't change it. Or make it go away."

"That's why it is time we go our separate ways." She coated the words in velvet iron. "And we need to do so now, before we end up doing something we will only end up regretting later."

"I'm not leaving you to face whatever is out there alone. Nothing you say is gonna make me change my mind about that."

Kind, decent, he was. And, stubborn as an ox.

"You have to, Rick. You need to take the Bronco and head towards Atlanta. You got to find your wife and son."

Ripe temper bloomed on his face, in his eyes. He took a step towards her, only a few inches taller, but no less intimidating. Yet she knew he wouldn't lay a hand on her. It wasn't the kind of man Rick Grimes was. He could be pissed off at a woman and not have to knock her around.

"This discussion ain't over. Not by a long shot." His tone was eerily reminiscent of Bruce's dark rasp. It told her louder than words about how annoyed he was with her. "Now, let's get back on the road and put some more distance between us and whoever the hell those men were."

He strode away then, leaving Raya watching him with sad eyes. There was only one course of action available to her, she realized as she slowly pushed to her feet. They'd have to leave him at the first opportunity. It was the only way to get him to search for his family. It was the only way she could keep him safe. With that low, grating cackle ringing in her ears, she got back into the Bronco, her heart dying a bit for the pain she was about to inflict upon Rick.

And on herself.


	33. Chapter 33

**Georgia, outskirts of Atlanta**

_Day 71 (early evening)_

If Rick had to admit to being a complete failure at any one specific thing in his life, it would be not knowing when or how to apologize. Saying _sorry_ just wasn't something he had ever been any good at doing. Usually, the words ended up coming out wrong, caused even more hurt, had tempers flare anew, and generally just made an already bad situation, even worse. Apologizing simply was not a skill he managed to cultivate in his youth. Whenever he had done or said something wrong while growing up, making amends had come in the form of accepting whatever parental or sibling punishment he got dealt. As he got older, he took his lumps and paid for his mistakes with quite a few shiners and busted lips. Domestic disputes, on the other hand, were the one thing he had never learned how to resolve.

Not successfully, at least.

No matter how hard he tried, he just never seemed able to find the words to convey just how much he regretted something he had inadvertently said or done. Lori once accused him of not caring enough, of simply giving up on their marriage and on making things work because he wanted out and didn't have the guts to simply say so. It was that argument and his conversation with Shane the following day his mind drifted back too as he waited for Raya to join him.

_He's seated beside Shane in the police cruiser, pretending to eat only because Shane would have questioned him otherwise. His mood is somber, bleak, and his heart heavy. He's uncomfortable with the turn their conversation has taken, not because he doesn't trust his best friend and partner with the truth, but because he's ashamed to admit that things have gotten so bad between him and Lori that he has started to consider leaving her…_

...

**Kings County, GA**

_Pre-Day 0_

"So, how's it with Lori, man?"

Even though he had known the conversation would turn here eventually - as it always did anymore - his belly still knotted into greasy little balls of agitation and anxiety. How was it with Lori? _How did he think it was_? was what he wanted to reply with. He struggled to think of a suitable response, one that would answer his best friends question without inviting the need for further discussion.

"She's good," he finally settled on saying. "She's good at turning off lights." He paused to swallow the bile that gushed into his throat with all the half-truths and misleading dialogue dripping from his tongue. "I'm the one who forgets."

Shane let out a soft breath, indicating he didn't buy what he'd said for a minute. Then he quietly said, "Not what I meant, man, and you know it."

Rick did know it. He just hoped Shane would accept that answer and move on. _Should have known he wouldn't_ , he thought as he tossed his napkin atop his half-eaten burger and fries. What little appetite he did have had gone with the wind. For a few seconds, he didn't say anything. He didn't know _what_ to say. He didn't know what the problems were, what he had specifically done wrong, or why things had gone down the shitter in the way they had.

"We didn't have a great night," he finally admitted with a small grimace. "I, uh, slept on the couch."

_Again_ , he added silently. He'd gotten used to it, though. The couch in the living room was a helluva lot comfier than those lumpy old cots in the station house, after all.

"Hey, man, look," Shane said quietly. "I may have, uh, failed to amuse you with my little sermon and all, but I did try." He sent him a pitying look that grated on Rick's already fried nerve endings. "The least you could do in return is, yanno, _speak_."

His temper rumbled at hearing that word. _Speak_. He had grown to acutely despise that goddamn word. "That's what Lori always says." The eyes he turned to his best friend and partner burned with the tidal wave of things he was only barely keeping a lid on. " _Speak_. You'd somehow think I was the most close-mouthed son of a bitch ever by the way she tells it."

Shane made a soft sound deep in his throat that resembled a cross between sympathy and amusement. Neither made the guilt from his outburst go away. Or absolve him of the desire to say fuck it all and walk away.

"Do you, uh, express your thoughts?" Shane asked cautiously. "Do you, ah, share your feelings and that kind of stuff with her?"

Rick pondered how best to answer that while he stared out the window. Everywhere he looked, he saw normal people going about their typical, everyday lives. Seeing the hustle and bustle of the town he served to protect brought him a measure of peace and comfort. Today, though, it just reminded him of how shitty his home situation was. He wasn't alone in that. He knew there were plenty of other people in the world who were going through the same thing as he was. And many of them had likely started to think like he was: that it was time to start considering throwing in the towel. A marriage didn't thrive on silence. How to bridge that ever-widening gap?

"I've been trying to be more open. Lately, though?" He swallowed a sigh as well as the bitter hurt trying to pour from his mouth. "Whenever I try to share my thoughts and things with her, it just makes her impatient. Like she didn't really wanna hear any of it in the first damn place."

"That's just the anger talking," Shane told him in a tone that said he had gone down this particular road a time or two before. With who Rick didn't know. Most of Shane's relationships were the superficial, heat of the moment kind. It was rare for him to see a woman for more than a few weeks at a time, much less to forge anything resembling a relationship with them. "You gotta keep trying. Keep sharing your feelings and thoughts until she's not angry about whatever she's angry about anymore."

_And when might that happen_? he silently asked. _When is there ever gonna be a time she ain't pissed off at me just because I am breathing in her space_?

He didn't realize he spoke his thoughts aloud until Shane sighed and said, "it'll come when she's ready not to be pissed off anymore."

"Thing is, she's pissed off at me all the time." He looked back at Shane, desperate for some sort of explanation that would tell him why things had gotten this way between them. "I don't even know what it is I have done to deserve this round of silence. I've tried to be a good husband and father..."

"Look, man," Shane said in one long breath. "This is just shit couples who've been together long as you and Lori tend to go through. You know, it's, it's like a, like a phase or something. You'll get through it."

"You know what the last thing she said to me this morning was?" His voice trembled for a second with the hurt he was doing his best to hide. '" _Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all_ '." He let out a small, hollow laugh. "She said that in front of Carl. Imagine going to school with that shit in your head." He looked away, feeling the burn of those words deep down in his gut. "You know what the difference between men and women is?" he said as he watched a woman ride by on her bicycle. "I would never say something that cruel to her." He glanced at Shane. "And I'd never said it in front of Carl."

…

Whatever else Shane might have said got cut off when dispatch radioed to relay a request from Linden County for help with a high-speed chase. Everything came crashing to a halt the second that man popped out of the backseat of that car and shot him. Nothing mattered after that. He became Sleeping Rick and the world went to hell. He knew what advice Shane would have given him if things had gone differently, though. He would have told him to tell Lori he was sorry, admit everything wrong between them being his fault and promise to do better in the future.

_It wasn't all my fault, though,_ he thought as he kicked his boots off and set them on the side of the couch. _Lori has a part in things. She's just as at fault for all of our arguments as I am. She has a hand in everything that went wrong_. _She's just as guilty_ …

A soft, "Hey," broke him from his internal conservation. Flicking a look to his left, he saw Raya was standing there, offering him a red thermal traveling mug of what smelled like that tea blend she kept in a small silver container at the bottom of her black travel bag. He hid a smile as he watched the steam lazily float up to the ceiling. Tea was her seeming answer to everything. She used it to wash his wound, added it to the poultices she applied, tossed it in with the laundry, brewed a cup before they bedded down for the night. _I wonder where she got her tea addiction from_? Not that he expected she would tell him if he asked. The woman took being secretive to an all new level. Even the government suits he infrequently dealt with at work weren't as close-mouthed as this woman.

"Thank you," he said as he took the steaming cup from her. "But you didn't have to-"

"Stop." She smiled to soften the rebuke. "It's just tea."

"That you didn't have to make."

She dismissed his point with a wave of her hand. "It's not like I did anything more strenuous than boil some water and drop a couple of tea bags into traveling mugs."

"Still." He lifted the mug and took a careful sip. Felt his body revolt as the slightly minty tea hit his tongue. He swallowed his grimace. "You didn't have to go to the trouble."

"Is this about to become another of those you don't want me washing your shirts arguments?" she lightly joked as she settled beside him with her own steaming mug. "Because you didn't win that debate, either."

"Is that how you recall that particular argument going?"

"Yes'm." Her lips twitched at his snort. "That's exactly how I recall things going."

"We must be remembering different arguments than," he said lightly. "'Cause I tend to recall I washed my own shirts. And," he added smugly, "I managed to get them sufficiently blood free."

She smiled at him from over the rim of her cup. "Yes," she agreed with a slight nod. "But that was _after_ I put them in water to soak."

"Ah, but I still did the actual washing." He sent her an easy smile as he shrugged out of his work shirt. "So there."

"Yes, you did do the washing," she allowed with another slight nod. "And you did do an adorable job of getting them clean." She lowered her mug. "But only after I showed you how to rub the blood out."

"Okay, fine, I admit it. You helped."

"Thinking I did a bit more than just help there..."

"Okay, so _maybe_ you _technically_ washed my shirts for me."

"No _maybe_ about it. I _did_ wash your shirts for you." The look she sent him was all feminine superiority. Rick knew her well enough by now to know it was more for show than anything serious. Independent she might be, headstrong and opinionated, but she didn't hold the belief that she was either less than or more than him simply because she was a woman. "I just allowed you to think that you were the one who did the washing so you wouldn't get your feelings hurt."

He struggled to contain the kernel of amusement her words caused. "You're certainly not trying to soothe my fragile male ego, are you?"

"What?" She batted her eyes coquettishly at him. "Am I not soothing your fragile male ego here?"

"No," he told her. "You're not."

"Well, I tried my best."

"Bullshit." He chuckled as he folded his shirt and set it aside. "Haven't you ever been told not to bullshit a bullshitter?"

"Ah, but bullshit you do not."

It never ceased to amaze him about how well she knew him. _Maybe that Yoda act isn't an act_ , he mused as he studied the steam floating out of the opening in his mug. They had been together for less than a week. Yet she knew more about him than people who had known him for years. _She knows more about me than Lori_ … He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. It wasn't fair to keep comparing Lori to Raya. They were completely different women who had lived lives that only minimally paralleled the other. And while it was nice being with a woman who didn't take his inability to talk about his thoughts and feelings to mean he didn't care, neither did it mean he should give up on the woman he promised to love, honor and cherish.

It was hard keeping that in perspective, though. He was tempted, much more than he ever imagined he could be, to simply say screw it and walk away. To go wherever it was Raya was going and start his life over. _Hell, ain't like Lori has any reason to even think I'm alive_. That thought hung over him as he looked over to where Krypto was sitting and watching the front yard of the small house they opted to stay in while regrouping. The dog's ears were pricked forward and his brown eyes sharp and intense as they scanned the perimeter.

"Rick?" He heard the anxiousness in her voice and instantly regretted being the cause of it. "Is everything okay?"

"Sorry." He sent her an apologetic smile. "What did you say?"

"I said you aren't a bullshitter."

"No, I'm not really much of a bullshitter," he admitted with a slight smile. "Always felt it was best to just be upfront about stuff, yanno? Get whatever was wrong out on the table so that it could be dealt with." He grimaced then as he thought of the one area in his life where he hadn't been able to apply that theory as successfully as he'd like. "I wasn't always as successful at that as I should have been, I admit."

"You mean with your wife."

"Yeah." He had known she would get who he was talking about. The woman just seemed to get _him_. It was one more peg in the column for why he should stay. And another reason for why he knew he couldn't. "I, uh, thought that by keeping it all in I would protect her and Carl from the ugliness I sometimes had to deal with."

"That's what Uncle Jim thought when he didn't talk about his job with Auntie Barb. It didn't really work to ease her concerns and fears."

"No," he softly agreed. "No, it didn't. You're right about that."

"That's why he was always honest with my cousin, Barbara and I. Even if it was something he knew would cause us an extreme amount of anger or pain, he would still tell us the truth."

"It's easier to deal with the pain and the hurt the truth causes."

"Yes." She gave a slight nod. "It is." Her eyes, though, had a faraway look to them. Almost as if she was in another time and place. He was about to question her about it when she murmured, "Lies cause a different sort of hurt and pain. Some," she continued in a voice that trembled with all the things she kept locked inside that mental vault of hers, "that leave behind wounds that never heal."

"Hey." He reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to spoil your otherwise good mood with my problems."

She reached up to rest her hand atop his. "You didn't," she assured him. "Trust me."

Even though he knew she would likely balk and say nothing was the matter he still felt compelled to ask her, "What is it then? What's bothering you?"

"It's nothing specific," she admitted with a slight grimace. "That's the thing."

"It's something," he said. "What is it?"

"It's more that thinking about home has just made me a bit maudlin." She patted his hand. "That's all."

"I think this is about more than being a lil' bit homesick." He stroked a thumb over the back of her hand. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say worry about your family is what has you down. You don't know what's happened to them. Or if they are okay."

"It's more that I have no idea what I will find when I get there than worry that something has happened to them," she finally admitted. "See, I know my family is okay. We have gone through worse and always managed to survive. But Gotham? Sure, Gotham is prepared for anything. Yet even I find myself looking around and wondering if our city is able to withstand this."

"There's worse than the undead walking around?" Rick gave her a doubtful look. "I somehow doubt that."

"Believe it or not, I have gone through more than my share of apocalyptic disasters." She lifted her mug of tea. "Why do you think I drink so much of this stuff? It's the only thing that relaxes me."

"Then you should always be relaxed," he joked as he reached for his own mug. "Considering how you practically bathe in this stuff." He grimaced as the slightly sweet tea hit his tongue. "How you manage to drink this shit is beyond me. Always was more of a coffee man myself."

"Oh, you poor man." She gave him a pitying look. "Your coffee deprived body must be ready to stage a revolt."

"It's threatening to leave me if I keep drinking this stuff."

Her lips twitched. "I promise to feed your caffeine addiction in the morning."

"My body will be eternally grateful to you if you do."

"Oh?" Interest and mischief blossomed in the depths of her eyes. Both had his brain going into defensive mode. "Just how appreciative we talking here? Get me an apple from that tree outside or…?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "We talking more like rub my feet and shoulders?"

She was trying to throw him off. _Again_. And Rick had to admit it was working. Her innocent phrase had erotic images shooting through his brain – desires and demands that he told himself he had to deny. Dimly, he heard a voice asking him what would be the worst thing to happen if he gave in. He ignored that voice and changed the subject to something that was far less dangerous and didn't lead to him doing something he would end up regretting. "So where did you get your obsession with tea from?"

"Alfred, actually."

She always warmed when she spoke of a member of her family. Her love and affection was abundantly clear. Blood didn't mean a thing to this woman. Family didn't begin with blood in her worldview. It started with love.

"He is a tea lover?"

"Tea is his magic go to, cure-all for all ailments. No injury, illness or stress can stand up against a cup of Alfred's worst famous tea." At his surprised glance, she smirked. "Why do you look so shocked?"

The woman lived to surprise him. That fact was becoming more and more clear the longer he was with her. She delighted in keeping him in a constantly befuddled state. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn't expect to find out where your tea obsession came from so easily." He picked up his tea and wet his dry throat with a long sip. "I thought I would have to work harder to get an honest answer out of you."

She cocked her head to the side. "And why did you think that?"

"You like your secrets."

"Why, yes, I do." Her eyes, when they flicked to his, were glowing, filled with amusement and mystery. "I like my secrets very much."

He studied her for a few moments. She had kicked her boots off and tucked her legs up beside her on the couch. She'd tied her hair back that evening, his only complaint about her appearance. He liked it best when she left it wild and loose, but he had to admit that the binding left an intriguing spill of dark curls down her back. He'd like too… _no_! He had to stop fantasizing about what he'd like to do. There was nothing he could do. Not with this woman.

Krypto had crept over while he had been fantasizing about things he couldn't ever have and laid his giant head in her lap. Rick felt a moment's envy as Raya stroked the top of his head with those small, delicate fingers of hers. It was the most relaxed he had seen her since that night at the farmhouse. Part of him loathed to disrupt that mood by peppering her with questions, but damnit he deserved some answers.

"Tell me one thing about you that is the truth."

"Okay." She smiled as Krypto sighed beneath his breath. "Despite co-owning a coffee plantation in Hawaii with my best friend, I prefer tea to coffee."

His eyebrows feathered up. "You have a coffee plantation in Hawaii?"

"I do." She nodded. "Yes."

"Then why did you move to Georgia?" He settled back against the back of the couch. "Why not settle down in Hawaii?"

Those gently sloping shoulders lifted a fraction of an inch before she said, "Georgia was safer." Then she grimaced. "Well, it was safer at the time."

"You didn't know that this was gonna happen."

"No. No, I didn't. None of us knew this was going to happen. And," she added as she stroked one of Krypto's ears, "we should have."

His brow knitted with confusion. "How could you have known this was gonna happen?"

"Because it is our jobs to make sure the people of this planet are safe." Her eyes lifted to his. "We are who stand between you and those people and situations that threaten you with annihilation. And," she paused, heaved another sigh. "We have failed to do that. We have failed to protect this world from the one thing that could destroy it: ourselves."

He was silent as he considered her carefully spoken words. Was she giving him the opening to ask him the questions that had been hounding him ever since he met her? He decided to test the waters and see.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly. "What are you?"

He half expected her to change the subject. Or make some outrageous sexual innuendo that would fry his brain. She did neither.

"My name is Doctor Raya Kean," she told him in a voice that was no longer the one she normally spoke in. It was lower, darker, more of a throaty rasp. "And I used to be known by the codename of the Fenix…"


	34. Chapter 34

**Route 81**

_Day 71 (Late Evening)_

As the van bearing her, Robin, a couple of goons, and two hyenas headed down a dark, desolate highway, Harley thought about all that she had given up when she allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with a murdering slime ball. She gave up her career as well as her identity, every possibility for a loving husband and 2.3 children, and every right to having her own wants and needs met.

All so she could become what her puddin' had wanted her to become, his _Harlequin_.

By placing her heart, as well as her body, into the hands of a pasty-faced psychopath with a violence fetish, she'd ensured she would never know the sweet taste of love or the wondrous rapture of romance. She was nothing but the sex toy of a madman. A monster who got rid of her because he was now tired of her. The arrow that pierced Harley's heart was one poisoned by all the anger and regret and hurt she had locked away inside herself.

_How could I allow this ta happen_? she wondered as she lifted her hands to thumb the moisture that trickled from her eyes away. _Even I don't understand how I could have allowed him ta take so much control of me. I wasn't a doormat when I first met Mistah J. I wasn't some big lump a clay just waiting for him ta mold into whatever creation he wanted._

_I came from a relatively normal family, as functional as any other family really. I was well-educated, independent, on the road to success, a doctor at twenty-three. Then I met Mistah J and somethin' went wrong. Terribly wrong. 'Cause there I was, trapped within this mad love affair. Allowin' myself ta be humiliated and degraded. Lettin' myself be physically and sexually abused._

_And I dunno why._

"Youse know why youse ended up in that situation," she heard a voice that sounded like a younger version of herself say with just a trace of the bitterness curdling in her belly. "Youse know that ya allowed yourself ta believe his lies, ta fall for his manipulation, ta become trapped in his spell. Youse just tryin' ta avoid acceptin' the blame for being a dumb ass."

_I ain't a dumb ass._

"Did youse once blame yourself or Mistah J for every bit of our unhappiness, misery, and self-hatred? Nope. You blamed the B-Man." She heard a delicate little sniff. "Makes ya a dumb ass, kid."

Her younger self was right. She had kept blaming the Bats for everything. The truth was it was all her fault. She allowed herself to become manipulated, molded, and misused. She had chosen to stay despite having the B-Man and the Doc repeatedly offer to help her leave.

_Well, I'm done_ , she thought as she looked over to where Robin dozed on the seat beside her. _I'm gonna fight on the good side for a change._ She stroked a hand over her still flat belly. _I'm gonna do right by youse_ , she told the life forming beneath her palm. _And if anybody tries ta hurt ya? Well, Momma will burn their asses alive_.

In the mind of Harley Quinn, the future was bright with one thing: _new beginnings_.

...

**Metropolis**

Dressed in a red and blue bodysuit made from the polymers of the baby blanket he'd been swaddled in before being sent from his home planet of Krypton, and with his crimson cape flowing behind him, Superman shot out of a window into the rain-soaked night. Right fist extended, he soared into the sky, circled around the rooftop of the towering iron giant, then raced over the churning waters of Metropolis harbor. What few boats remained bobbed and bounced about in their berths, the people hiding below decks to avoid being swept overboard and out to sea.

Normally, he would take the time to enjoy not only the freedom of not having to hide his secret identity but the euphoria of flying. Tonight, every second counted. Martha and Jonathan Kent had raised their adopted son to be more than just some passing observer. Whenever he saw a problem, he did something about it. It was the core of who he was, both as Kal-El and in his human guide as plain, old Clark Kent.

Leaving Metropolis and its shoreline behind, he headed out over the ocean. He streaked past a few private yachts and trawlers brave enough to take their chances in the stormy waters and continued heading east. He wanted to stop in and make sure the people on board were okay, that they didn't want or need his assistance, but couldn't afford to deviate from his plan. Someone needed to go after the Flash. Someone needed to find a way to help the Scarlet Speedster escape the Speed Force.

He figured that _someone_ was him.

Batman had to think of his family and the desperate people of Gotham. Green Arrow needed to focus on stopping Slade Wilson. Wonder Woman and Aquaman had their people to take care of. All of them would use their greatest skills and physical abilities to do what was right, what they knew was just. Batman would use his mind, Green Arrow his bow, Aquaman his trident and Wonder Woman her skills as an Amazonian Warrior.

_He_ would use his superhuman speed.

Because he wasn't just a man.

He was _Superman_.

And only _he_ could travel through time in search of the Flash. _I just hope I can find him_ , he thought as he extended his fist and flew faster, slicing through the salty air and across the vast expanse of time and space.

In the mind of Superman, the future held only one thing: _the rescue of a friend_.

…

**Route 81**

Tim stopped to consult the map he'd taken from a miraculously still standing and reasonably stocked Stop & Go he'd come upon on the outskirts of Roanoke, Virginia. He had somehow managed to reach the midpoint of his trip South with only minimal problems. _Well, thus far_ , he amended as he spread the map out to consult it. He had met a few random hordes of undead on the outskirts of some of the larger cities he had passed after leaving Gotham but managed to avoid having to get into direct conflict with them.

There had been signs of human life in some of the smaller cities and towns he passed through on his trek. He had seen many houses and businesses with boarded up doors and windows intended to keep the undead roaming the streets out. Larger camps and sanctuaries were established in the larger cities more able to accommodate a larger crowd of survivors. All of it gave him hope that the world would survive this plague. _It will just take time to regroup_ , he thought as he studied the map _. And to recover from everything that has happened_.

A sound cropped up on his left. Tim felt his body stiffen as he attenuated to the sound. It came again, chilling his blood and causing his heart to skip a beat. It almost sounded like the flapping of wings. Or torn and frayed clothing being whipped by the wind. He reached for the bo-staff clipped to his belt as his body primed, readied for action. His fingers closed over the handle as he slowly glanced up. He had managed to avoid fighting any of the undead by either going around them, or causing enough of a distraction that he slipped by their bands unnoticed. He had known his luck would eventually run out. He had known this moment would come. The roads he traveled were far more treacherous than any of those he had taken before.

He twisted around, the staff extended to its full length so he could face whoever, or whatever, tried to sneak up on him. He let out a small, embarrassed laugh when he found what he'd assumed was a member of the undead trying to sneak up on him was nothing more than a plastic bag that had gotten snagged on a power line.

_Nah, not paranoid now, are ya, Timbo?_

He released a shaky breath before he returned to the map still open before him. He wanted to plot his course and get back on the road before plastic bags turned into something that actually did mean him harm. There were several roads heading into Atlanta that he could take, but what condition they were in, and whether there was anything along those roads that could prevent his passage was unknown.

All reports before news communications failed had indicated that the hardest hit areas of the state of Georgia had been those surrounding Atlanta. _I don't even know if Raya and the kids are in Atlanta_ , he realized with a sigh. Bruce had sent the Flash to ask Raya to stay in her home until either the Scarlet Speedster or Superman could be there to bring her to Gotham.

_That was almost three months ago_. With that thought in mind, Tim continued to study the map, brow puckering as he traced another potential route with his finger. If Raya had started making her way towards Gotham - and Tim believed she had - she'd likely travel up the coastline, hug the ocean if she needed to reach out to Aquaman for aide.

_It's what I plan to do once I find her and the kids_.

And that was gonna prove difficult. Hunting a member of his family was never easy. They all were trained by the same man, sure. However, how they employed his techniques was a different story. All of them utilized Bruce's lessons in different ways. _And Raya is the one who plays hide-and-seek the best of all of us_. Tracking her movements, figuring out what roads she took, which direction she was heading? That was difficult even with his entire arsenal at his disposal. Without it? It could prove to be nearly impossible.

The sound of a car roaring up the road towards him drew his attention. Tim looked up as a black SUV came barreling into view. A frown puckered his brow as he studied the vehicle. It looked... _vaguely familiar_ , he realized with a start. Before he could get a glimpse of the occupants of the vehicle, however, the slash of headlights fell on him, blinding him.

"Gah," he groaned as he shielded his eyes with an arm. "What the hell?"

Tires squealed as brakes screamed in protest at being slammed down on. Tim looked as car doors opened and blurry figures emerged. Then he heard a familiar voice grumble, "Ttch, I should have known it would be you we'd find."

Tim's eyes popped open wide as he recognized that petulant tone. _No_ , he thought. _It cannot be the little demon. I just cannot be that unlucky_. However, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw Robin standing in front of him, fists planted upon his hips and his perma-sneer fixed firmly in place. A few steps behind him stood a blonde woman Tim had not thought he would ever see again.

"Hello, Double R," Harley breathed out around a small, shaky smile. "Fancy meetin' me here, huh?"

As Timothy Drake stood there looking between the two, he realized that the future was full of one thing: _new alliances_.

…

**The Speed Force**

_Keep running, Barry_ , he ordered. _Just keep running. The Time Wrath can't get you if you keep running_.

He had told himself that for what felt like an eternity now. Exactly how long he had been stuck in the Speed Force, he didn't know. When he chose to go back and fix what he had done, it had been the beginning of May. How many days-weeks-months had passed since then? He really had no way of knowing. And he wouldn't know until he managed to get himself out of this time trap. And to do that he needed to find a fragment of time he could use in order to let one of his allies know about what had happened to him and how they could help. He passed through hundreds of thousands of moments, some his, some belonging to the people he thought of as friends and family. Most of the snippets were unknown to him, of little to no importance or bearing. He streaked through time, hardly more than a blur as he searched for that one moment he could use to pass his message.

_Time_.

A second, a minute, an hour. All three were entities that belonged to the same linear property associated with time. Yet, as he well knew, all three came with different units by which they could be measured. Knowing if he had seconds, minutes or hours could make all the difference in the world between whatever plan he came up with either being a success or a complete and utter failure. Here, one second, barely the length of time that it took to draw in a breath, made the difference between rescue or capture.

_Time_.

Everything happening in the world was because of time. _And they couldn't stop time_ , Barry thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was no way to stop time. Time was forever. It came with its own specific rules and requirements. Change even one thing and there was the risk of changing a dozen other events. What was happening to the world was the result of him having altered time. By going back and rescuing his mom from the Reverse Flash, he created a sort of paradox. By altering reality, he changed events necessary to allow for multiple other situations and things to occur. His choice disrupted the natural flow of time. And going back to undo those events only made things worse.

_Time_.

Time would forever be the enemy of the Flash. He might be able to run faster than the speed of light. He might be able to break the sound barrier. He might even run faster than Superman. And yet Barry internally knew he was never gonna be fast enough to outrun time. For a man touted and hailed as the fastest man alive, it was a bitter pill to swallow. A second later, he saw the time-hole he was looking for. He dove into it without hesitation, knowing he had only minutes before the time wraith would find him. A glance at a calendar confirmed it was August 8, 2010. A look around the dark basement told him he was in a small residence in Blue Hills, Georgia. The woman with her back turned to him was the only one he trusted to get a message to his friends, allies, Joe and Iris.

_And Batman_ , he thought as he released a shuddering breath. _She will tell Batman and he will figure out a way to get me out of this time loop_.

If any of the members of the Justice League could figure out how to break him free from the Speed Force, it was the venerable Dark Knight.

"Hello, Barry," Raya said in that low, cultured tone he remembered. They were the same words she said when he came to see her the first time. He remembered their conversation, the play of emotions and every look upon her face. It was a script that played through his mind over and over. And he followed that script exactly because he couldn't afford to attract the time wraith before he managed to tell her what he needed her to do.

High-pitched screams filled the air, silencing him and forcing him to remember how a group of infected had attacked her neighborhood that day, killing three men and a woman. Even now, his inability to help the people barricaded in their homes made him sick to his stomach. Sitting back and doing nothing wasn't who he was. It wasn't who either of them was, actually.

Both of them had chosen to don their masks and become the heroes their cities — now the world —needed. They saw something wrong and they did something about it. Only, Barry couldn't do anything to help the people outside. It wasn't part of the script. And he couldn't deviate from that script. Not unless he wanted to see the world burn down completely. He shook off his feelings of bitterness and regret and looked down into her upturned face.

"How did you know it was me and not Clark?"

"Clark would have knocked on my front door and waited for me to answer it."

He allowed a small grin to tug at his lips. "Well, he is the Boy Scout."

Raya laughed softly at that. "Yes," she agreed with a nod. "That he is. But you didn't come to Georgia to talk about Clark Kent being the poster boy for the Boy Scouts of America."

"I didn't?" It was all part of the script, of the game they had played. Yet for Barry, who couldn't be sure how long it had been since he last saw her, it was a small slice of Heaven. A moment he treasured despite already having lived it once before. "How can you be so sure I didn't come here to talk about Clark being the Boy Scout?"

"C'mon, Bar. I know you have a message for me." Her eyes shimmered with mirth. "What orders from Mordor, m'lord?"

"Batman is Saruman now?"

"He does have a great eye that sees all."

Barry chuckled as he reached up to remove his cowl. The overly suspicious and cynical nature of Gotham's silent guardian was a well-established fact. "He did send me with a message," he finally admitted. "You're right."

"Aha, knew it." She shook her head. "Can only mean things in Gotham are far worse than he indicated they were when last I spoke with him."

"Things are bad." Barry fought to keep from diverting from the script and telling her just how bad things were. He instead said, "They're really bad, Fe."

"How many cities has the virus broke out in?"

_How many have died and come back_? was what she really wanted to ask. She knew it and Barry knew it. However, she didn't ask and he didn't offer up an answer. Not that he really needed to do so. The grim expression on her face was more than enough to tell him that she suspected the numbers of undead had already reached well into the thousands.

"It's everywhere." He moved to her, reached out to take her hand. A small divergence but one he thought allowable given all that was going on. "And it is spreading like wildfire."

The fingers resting loosely in his trembled, once. It was the only outward sign of her worry and concern. He covered them with his other hand, giving her the same comfort he gave her the last time because she was still his friend and he cared greatly about her.

"The kids and I are gonna leave tonight for Got-"

"He wants you and them to stay here." Just like before, she squawked a protest. Before she could issue the stark refusal he saw brewing in her eyes he stopped her, repeating the same words he told her the first time he came her. "He asked me to come here because he couldn't risk coming himself. He doesn't want you coming home to Gotham. Or getting anywhere near Metropolis for that matter. Not now. And not," he stressed when she growled, "while things are so out of control. Do you understand?"

"I understand he needs me home to help him with protecting the city, Barry. All birds on deck at this point. And that," she added in a voice like tempered steel, "includes the Fenix."

He had forgotten about how stubborn she could be when it came to her family and her responsibilities as the Fenix. Part of him wondered if she ever did make it home to Gotham. Another part, though, worried she might have been found by either Luthor or Slade Wilson before she got to Gotham.

"He needs you somewhere that he thinks is safe while he and the others search for a way to fix things."

"There is no fixing things, Barry."

So, she didn't know about his going back to undo what he had done then. Barry closed his eyes, more a long blink than anything else. When he opened them again, he saw hers were looking back at him. And just as achingly, brutally sad as he knew his were.

"We have to do something to help," was what he said in response. Same as he said then because that was what the script demanded. "We can't just sit back and do nothing. It's not who we are."

"We are doing something, Barry." She squeezed his fingers. Comfort and warmth and the quiet support he had longed for. "We are getting as many people as we can to safety. For now?" Her sigh blew over his moist flesh, chilling it. "That's all we can do to help them."

Barry made a faint sound in his throat. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't enough, that it would never be enough, but he cut it short and nodded instead. Not because he didn't think she wouldn't get what he was feeling. He knew she would understand how useless he felt, how helpless in the wake of this disaster. She felt the same way. There was nothing that this woman wouldn't love to do more than don her body armor and go out there and stop what was happening to her neighbors.

Like him, she had chosen to don a mask to protect humanity from these sorts of threats. She couldn't go out there, though. All of her abilities combined wouldn't be enough to stop the undead. That task fell to him, and him, alone. She must have sensed he was hurting because she reached up to brush her fingers down the skin of his right cheek. Then, seeming to realize he was trembling and not merely vibrating as he so often did, she slipped her arms around him and pulled him close.

"We're doing the best that we can against some pretty insurmountable odds, Barry," he felt her say against his shoulder. "Once Batman and the others figure out what is going on, we will do more to help people."

"You're right." A faint softening at the corners of his mouth was all the smile he could manage. "As always." And because he needed it, because he felt he had earned it, he broke the script once more by resting his cheek against the top of her head and folding his arms around her. "You'll stay here until either Clark or I come and give you the all clear?"

"I'll wait a month for you or Clark to come and tell me everything's a go for me and the kids to go home," she stated in a tone that could cut through steel. "If you don't come by the end of the first week of October, we will start making our way north. Is that clear?"

As far as compromises went, Barry knew it was the best he was going to get. "A month then," he agreed as he slid a USB stick he swiped from STAR labs with all the information needed for Batman to figure out what was going on and how to stop it into her pocket. He was the only one who knew he wouldn't return in that month's time. He swallowed the bitterness of that back as he pulled his cowl on and stepped back. "Try and stay inside if you can. If things get bad…"

"We will call for help." Gunfire and more shouts echoed from outside. Only the shrieks of the Time Wrath concerned Barry, though. He turned to go but her hand on his arm stopped him. "Barry?"

He glanced back at her. "What is it, Fe?"

"Promise me you'll be careful."

He gave her what he hoped was his most reassuring smile. "I'll be careful." The lie tasted foul. "Give Rosie a kiss for me."

"I will," she said. "Now go."

As Barry Allen disappeared back into the Speed Force, he realized the future contained only one thing for him: _the unknown_.


	35. Chapter 35

**Quarry Camp**

_Day 72 (Dawn)_

He gave up trying to sleep when he had the same damn dream for the tenth time in a row. It was always the same dream. Merle and Mule were arguing on the porch of the house they'd been staying in at that residential community set up outside Blue Ridge. Mule was accusing Merle of being an asshole and Merle was proving her right by being one. Why he always dreamed of that spat, he didn't know. Well, he _did_ know. It was her damn answer to Merle's question.

_"Why you care so much about what happens between me and my baby brother?" Merle demanded. "Huh? Hell's it matter to you?"_

_"It matters because he matters." When Merle's eyes met Mule's, there was a clash. Like two freight trains meeting on the same track. "He fucking matters, Merle. That's why I'm sticking up for him. He fucking matters."_

It wasn't like he needed Mule to stick up for him. Hell, he'd gotten in plenty of scuffles with Merle over the years. Always took his lumps and nursed his wounds with a bottle of whatever he could find. Yet hearing those words, and knowing she meant every damn one of them had hit him a helluva lot harder than Merle ever could. Nobody, save for his brother, had ever given a shit about him. Why should they? He was just some redneck asshole with an even bigger asshole for a brother. None of that mattered to Mule. Didn't make no difference to her he was some high school dropout who barely could rub two pennies together. She didn't give a shit that he came from nothing, was nothing, a nobody. All that mattered to her was he was _him_.

He wasn't sure which one of them was crazier: her for giving a shit or him for believing her. _And he did believe her_ , he realized as he kicked off his covers and rolled to his feet. He believed Mule really did care for him. There were too many little things she had done, things she said that told him she cared for him. That's why her not being at their rendezvous spot made no sense. Her last words had been a promise that she would be there to greet him. 'With a smile and a song,' she'd said.

_Hell, are you, girl?_ he wondered as he reached for his pack of smokes. _I know you out here. I know you're waitin' for my dumb ass to find you. Well, if you just leave me some damn clue about where you and them kids are, I will._

As Daryl Dixon stood there, staring up at a crimson sky, the future held only one thing: _promise._

…

**Batcave**

Jason didn't mind getting his hands dirty. Engine grease coated his fingers, stained his fingernails, covered his coveralls. He slid back beneath the black automobile he found in ruins on one of the repair platforms and hid a smile. He inspected axles, checked lines, made sure the transmission was not leaking fluid. Everything was holding. _So far_ , he mused. His hands drifted over the smooth body, picturing the automobile as it had looked just a few short weeks before. All twisted metal, shattered glass, bent frame. _One hot ass mess_ , he thought as he made sure everything was nice and tight.

It had taken a lot of time and work on his and Alfred's part but the car was finally back to its original condition. He rolled out and stood, admiring his handiwork. The lines were still predatory, the paint polished to such a high gleam that it reminded him of a clear midnight sky. Alfred straightened and lifted the visor of his welding helmet with an audible groan. While Jason fully believed that everyone needed an Alfred Pennyworth in their life, he had to admit that the staid and proper butler was getting a bit old for crawling beneath the Batmobile. Not that _he_ would agree with that assessment, of course. He turned, watching as Alfred extinguished the blowtorch and placed it back into its case.

"Everythin' in order, Alfie?"

"I did not install a gun rack or any storage compartments for any of the other weapons you tend to favor, Master Jason," the butler replied in his usual deadpan. "But I think you'll find everything else quite in order."

Jason couldn't resist teasing him just a little. "And here I thought ya were going ta install a minibar for me." A smirk screwed up one corner of his mouth. "Lettin' me down here, Alfie."

"If you were prone to eating and drinking on a regular basis," Alfred replied as he wiped his hands on a rag. "I might have considered doing so."

Jason hid a smile as the dryness of the butler's tone washed over him. If there was one thing that Alfred was, it was subtle. "Made your point, Alfie."

"And what point is it that you think I am making, sir?"

"About not forgettin' ta do things like sleepin', eatin' and drinkin'."

"Yes, well," the butler said smartly. "One member of this family routinely forgetting to do those things is more than enough."

"Speaking of... where is Bruce?" Jason glanced up to the platform where the Batcomputer sat. Even from there he could see that the chair sat empty. "Is he upstairs gettin' some shut-eye?"

_Finally_ , he added silently. He had seen Bruce sleep, _actually_ sleep, maybe all of a dozen times in the last three weeks. It was a return to his early days as Robin. Bruce had become obsessed with figuring out how a handful of people were receiving concentrated doses of the Joker's patented laughing gas. He had become one of the undead walking around Gotham, hardly sleeping or eating, his every moment spent going from crime scene to crime scene to figure out what the clown was using to administer his gas to his victims.

"Master Bruce is meeting with Mr. Fox and Commissioner Gordon."

"He couldn't wait ta meet with them?" A frown puckered his brow, his only outward sign of how concerned he was for the man who served as both his adoptive parent and partner. "He didn't leave the cave until just before dawn."

"You know as well as I that Master Bruce will not rest until he figures out a way to make this world safe again."

Jason did know that. He knew how fanatical Bruce could get when there was a case to solve or a problem to fix. It used to annoy the shit out of him but now that he was older and a few degrees wiser, he understood that this just how Bruce tended to respond to these sorts of emotionally driven situations. He wasn't the sort of man to sit back and do nothing. Not when there was something he could potentially do that would make life easier for someone else. It was a trait he had passed down to each of them. _That's why I've decided ta go after Dickie_ , he thought as he opened the door of the vehicle and slid into the biodynamically designed driver's seat. _The only one the old man will potentially listen to, besides Kit, is Dickie_.

Before, that realization would have had him gnashing his teeth and stomping off in a fit of jealous temper. Now he realized that it wasn't a slight or insult on Bruce's part. It didn't mean he loved them more and him less. It was that both older heroes had long ago figured out how best to deal with the venerable Dark Knight.

"Stand clear, Alfie. I'm going ta fire her up. Are the tires secured to the rollers?"

"Indeed, they are, Master Jason. Wouldn't want your test run to end with you becoming a stain on the cave's walls."

Jason snorted a laugh. "Makes two of us."

Alfred primly inserted earplugs and stood back as Jason started the ignition process – atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed. The engine roared as it came to life. Jason felt a burst of pride as he listened to the familiar hum and purr of that high-powered five-cylinder engine. _How many rides did me and the old man take in this thing?_ He found himself wondering as he curled his fingers around the steering wheel. _How many missions did we go on? How many people did we save?_

Now the Batmobile was going to go on a much different type of journey. _And she's gonna save the person who most needs saving: Batman_. The vehicle shuddered, tires screaming on the rollers as he steadily increased power. The dashboard gauges all inched toward red fields. Jason continued to run diagnostics, making sure all systems were operating as they should. Everything came back as it should. He was more than pleased. When he finished the last tests, he climbed from the black vehicle and shut the door. A smile showed beneath Alfred's slightly more white mustache as he removed his earplugs.

"Pardon the choice of words here, Master Jason," he said. "But you have managed to bring her back from the ashes."

Jason sent the butler an amused look. "Is that a veiled comment about me goin' ta get Kit instead of Dickie?"

Alfred merely gave him a bland look. "Why, I have no idea of what you mean, sir."

"Right, Alfie," he replied with a smirk. "Ain't no use denyin' that ya want Kit home."

"Indeed, I do want Miss Raya home." Alfred gave a slight nod to his head. "I do want her home. As I want Miss Rose and Master Christopher home. However, they cannot return to Gotham." He sent a long and meaningful look at Jason. "Even _you_ agreed with Master Bruce about that."

"Yeah, I did." Jason drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. In spite of the Batmobile's armor, engine power, built-in weaponry, and evasive devices, the new monsters of this world trumped all of it. "That's why I'm goin' ta bring Dickie home, instead." He traced a hand over the hood of the car. "Batman needs Robin. And," he added as his fingers curled upon that polished steel, "Gotham needs Nightwing."

Alfred set a warm hand upon his shoulder. "Batman has Robin," he said gently. "He has you. And _you,_ my dear boy, are exactly what he needs."

Jason pondered those words for a few seconds. "You're right, Alfred… but havin' Dickie bird here won't hurt. We need all the help we can get."

Because the future to Jason Todd was full of one thing: _danger_.

…

**LexCorp**

A few hundred miles away, in the slowly decaying city of Metropolis, Lex Luthor thumbed open the locks on an aluminum carrying case and opened the lid to look at the pristine crystal vials lined up in five perfect rows. The neon green liquid stared back at him, almost as if it taunted him. For him, this substance, the only known compound with the ability to weaken someone with Kryptonian blood, reflected the actions of a man who had accepted that his original plan would not come to pass without some... help.

After considerable contemplation and a lengthy discussion with Slade Wilson, he had chosen to alter his original plan and go with one that the mercenary suggested. The decision brought him the clarity he had been missing all these weeks. An outside opinion, long needed, had made him see everything he had been missing. This infestation overtaking the world had clouded his judgment, distracted him from what he should have seen, and prevented him from acting as he normally would have. If he had been thinking more clearly, he would have seen how this virus was never threatening the welfare of Christopher Kent. The boy's genetic lineage prevented him from succumbing to its deadly effects. Others who had fallen to the disease, who had turned and become one of those singing their never-ending choral of blood lust had lacked a specific enzyme that made the virus revert to an inactive state.

He really should take his leave of this city, travel to his private island and wait out these still early days of this apocalypse in the comfort and luxury to which he had grown accustomed. He couldn't do that, however. Not so long as Christopher Kent remained out there. No, until Slade Wilson found the boy and brought him back here to LexCorp, he'd remain exactly where he was, keeping a vigilant watch, and preparing his men to act should the boy find himself in trouble.

_If Dr. Kean would only have been reasonable and accepted my generous offer to set her and the boy up in one of my lavish estates, none of this would be necessary_...

"Sir?" Mercy's softly uttered questioned interrupted his dark musings. "What is it you wish me to do?"

"Make sure that this case is left at the location that Mr. Wilson indicated," he rumbled. "And Mercy? Do make sure that nothing happens to it before he retrieves it."

"Of course, Mr. Luthor," came her automatic reply. "It will be done exactly as you say."

He nodded as he closed the case and slid it over to her. "You have never failed me, Mercy."

"Of course, not, sir."

With that, Mercy picked up the case and exited the office. Luthor watched her walk away, the curl of a smile, the first in weeks, upon his lips.

For Lex Luthor, the future was full of one thing: _second chances._

...

**Atlanta**

On a hill overlooking Atlanta, a man in a black and orange mask stood and watched as the sun coated the steel and glass giants jutting up from the horizon in a golden hue. Slade Wilson knew the picturesque serenity to be nothing more than a perverse lie. There was nothing idyllic or innocent about this city. No more than there was about the city of Gotham. The only city with an even darker, grittier and nearly deadlier history than these was Blüdhaven. Atlanta had become the Gotham of the South. The paved streets may not have the same scum walking it that Gotham did, but it wasn't the quiet little city it tried to project, either.

An apocalypse, something only the religious zealots had imagined possible, had turned much of the city into a barren wasteland. What people survived the onslaught of the military's napalm attack had formed segregated groups. Groups that Slade knew would turn on each other when the supplies started running out. Sure, there were no clowns, schizophrenic doctors, mad scientists or metahumans here. However, Slade knew crime never slept and that it didn't believe in apocalypses. New criminals were already rising up to replace those this world had thoughtfully wiped off the map. There was one thing that Slade knew with absolute certainty: there would always be villains.

_And people will always need heroes to protect them from those villains_ , he thought, his fists bunching at his sides. People would need something to shake them from their apathy, to inspire hope, and make them believe that everything was going to be okay. _That's why you will remain here_ , he silently told the woman he had relentlessly pursued all these years. _You will be that symbol they will look too. You will become that hero they will call upon. Much like Gotham calls upon Batman, Atlanta will call upon the Fenix_.

Coming to this city was the ending of what amounted to a ten-year long nightmare for him. It signified the start of what would be a life spent in quiet solitude with the daughter he had been actively searching for ever since her mother willfully stole her from him.

_You thought you could hide her from me, love_ , he thought as he turned back towards his car. _You thought you could her safe._

_You were wrong_.

A smile curved his lips as Slade Wilson climbed back into his armored vehicle. For him, the future was about one thing: _taking back what was his_.

...

**Outskirts of Atlanta**

_(Late morning)_

Rick knew Raya and the kids were gone the second he opened his eyes. Early morning sunlight filtered through the boards they'd used to cover up the window and caressed his face in an almost sympathetic gesture. The silence, following so many mornings of waking up to the happy chatter of two teens, seemed almost stifling. He muttered a few unsavory words as he sat up in bed. _Stubborn, paranoid woman_ , he groused, his irritation heightened by the cool feel of the cotton sheets against his damp skin.

Annoyed, he slapped the covers off, swung his feet onto the floor, stood, and padded over to the boarded-up window. He looked through one of the cracks, hoping beyond anything that he would be proven wrong and they'd be out there loading the Bronco while waiting for him to wake up. They weren't there, though. They weren't anywhere.

They were just… _gone_.

Rick let out a long stream of curses and slammed his hand against the wall next to the window. She had left him. She had _left_ him. Why he was even surprised, he didn't know. He had suspected she would pull something like this. She had been unusually withdrawn and quiet, even after they had found this small farmhouse and got settled. He had stupidly convinced himself it was because of the whopper of a panic attack she had.

_No, what the obstinate woman had been doing was plotting out when and where she was gonna leave me_.

Rick spun around and stalked over to where he had neatly set his folded uniform. He stopped when he spied the small white envelope with his name scrawled across the front perched against his gun belt. His teeth gnashed as he grabbed it and tore it open.

_Rick,_

_I need to explain why I am leaving, and I need to be honest and clear about my reasons. I do not do this to hurt you. I wish that I did_ not _have to hurt you. However, I knew we could not continue as we were. You were right when you said there is something between us. Pretending there's not doesn't change it. Or make the feelings go away. I do care about you. Much more than is prudent and far more than is proper. If we were different people, we could explore our feelings without care or concern about who might be hurt in the process._

_We are not those sorts of people, though._

_You have a wife and a son out there who need you. I know they are waiting for you. And if you are honest - really honest - with yourself, so do you. You need to find your family, Rick. You will never forgive yourself if you walk away without exhausting every effort to find them. Please, understand that my decision to leave comes at a very serious cost. I do not make this decision lightly. Twice now, I have met men who made me want to give love another chance. Both you and Tarzan have helped me in ways you cannot begin to understand. You helped me most of all by allowing me to lay aside my guilt over Conner's death._

_I cannot thank you enough for that. Or for the kindness and compassion you showed me and my children. Your friendship has been the brightest spot inside a world plunged into unyielding darkness. This is not a perfect world, Rick. It's a cruel world, a cold world, a calculating world. The world is going to demand much from the two of us in the coming days. Don't let it change you, Rick. Don't let it take away the honorable and decent man that you are. This world needs men like you. It needs men it can count on, rely on, trust to help it survive what has happened. Please, be that man. And if you do find yourself thinking of me in the future, I hope you do so with as much fondness as I will think of you. Always remember, Rick, when the night is the darkest is when the Fenix rises._

_Yours,_

_Raya._

Rick wiped a hand over his face, angered, touched, and amused all in one. _The woman is a walking contradiction_. He scanned the letter again before he refolded it and shoved it back into the envelope. His mind was in a whirl as he quickly pulled on his clothes. The woman wanted to tuck tail and run? Fine. She was just out of her damn mind if she thought he was going to let her waltz off without him attempting to find her and give her a piece of his mind, first.

A short time later found him staring at the vast emptiness that was all around him. He wondered how he would manage to find his wife and son inside so much nothingness. _Finding them is gonna be about as hard as finding one damned needle in the middle of a thousand bales of hay,_ he thought as he guided the horse he borrowed from a farm about ten miles outside the city's limits down the vacant highway.

As he rode, he thought of Raya. And Christopher and Rose. And that dopey white mutt of theirs. _Where are they now_? he found himself wondering as he stared at the iron towers rising towards the cerulean sky. _Are they all right_? He glanced over his left shoulder, a frown darkening his brow. Were they traveling the same road he was? Had he somehow passed them and not known it?

Raya had proven herself a bit more adept at surviving this world than he initially believed her capable of. She possessed the stealth and cunning he had only seen in people who had been specially trained for performing those sorts of field maneuvers. Raya wasn't an ordinary woman. He was sure of that now. If she hadn't told him the truth about who, and what she was, the thick aluminum case with the black body armor in it would have been all he needed to figure that out for himself. _The woman could get into a fight with Rambo and come out the victor_.

A few moments later, he rode into the city that had been nicknamed the Hollywood of the South after several movies and television shows were filmed there. All around him was silence and nothingness. Cars had been abandoned, some with their doors open and keys still in the ignition. That ever-familiar scent of death filled his nostrils, coated the back of his throat, and imprinted itself upon his memory.

For Rick Grimes, the future was full of one thing: _uncertainty_.


End file.
